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Copyright,  February,  1915 
By  Donald  Tulloch 
Worcester,  Mass. 


THE  DAVIS  PRESS 
WORCESTER,  MASS. 


SONGS  AND  POEMS 

OF  THE 

Great  World  War 


■PEAGE«>thH0N0R 


Collected  and  Edited 
By 

DONALD  TULLOCH 


A TRUMPET  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST 

Emerson  on  England. 

1 see  her  not  dispirited,  not  weak,  but  well  re- 
membering that  she  has  seen  dark  days  before. 

- . I see  her  in  her  old  age,  not  decrepit,  but 

young,  and  still  daring  to  believe  in  her  power 
of  endurance  and  expansion  Seeing  this,  1 
say,  All  hail!  Mother  of  nations,  Mother  of 
heroes,  with  strength  still  equal  to  the  time; 
still  wise  to  entertain  and  swift  to  execute  the 
policy  which  the  mind  and  heart  of  mankind 
require  at  the  present  hour. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  1856. 


Queen  Mary  of  Great  Britain 


DEDICATION. 


To  the  British  Bom  Women  of  Worcester,  This  Book 
is  Respectfully  Dedicated. 

Linked  by  home  ties  in  sympathy,  patriotism,  and 
death,  with  their  noble  sisters  in  the  warring  countries 
of  the  Homelands,  womanlike,  they  have  left  nothing 
undone  to  aid  in  alleviating  distress  among  their  kins- 
folk, caused  by  the  awful  carnage  in  Europe. 

Self-sacrifice,  love,  work,  have  been  the  wellsprings 
from  which  have  flowed,  across  the  Atlantic,  thousands 
of  dollars  in  money,  food  and  clothing  to  assist  the  desti- 
tute among  the  belligerents  during  the  last  six  months. 

Off  the  battlefield,  on  the  battlefield,  aye,  in  the 
battle  and  in  the  trench,  woman’s  work  in  this  war  will 
be  writ  large.  She  consecrated  her  life  for  the  sake  of 
the  men  who  have  battled  for  Freedom  and  Justice  to 
mankind. 

All  honor  to  Worcester’s  Womanhood. 

May  the  day  never  dawn  when  a repetition  of  this 
most  unwarranted  war  will  darken  the  pages  of  history. 

The  entire  receipts  from  the  sale  of  this  edition  of 
“Songs  and  Poems  of  the  Great  World  War”  after 
actual  cost  of  manufacturer’s  production,  are  to  be 
given  to  the  treasury  of  the  British  Born  Women’s 
Association. 


Feb.  20,  1915. 


Donald  Tulloch. 


OUR  GIFT  TODAY. 


With  every  book  that’s  bought  today, 

A thought  goes  speeding  on  its  way 
To  cheer  the  hearts  of  those  whose  swords 
For  us  are  drawn.  These  heroes  all 
Who  rallied  to  the  trumpet  call, 

Who  bear  the  brunt  on  land  and  sea 
To  shield  the  kingdom  of  the  free. 
Enough,  if  bounty  can  express 
Sense  of  our  deep  indebtedness, 

Our  earnest  promise  to  befriend 
Those  who  on  absent  ones  depend 
Yet  not  enough. 

Shall  not  the  gifts  that  we  bestow 
Have  now  and  in  the  afterglow 
The  message  we  are  fain  to  send 
To  those  we  love?  Each  gift  a prayer 
That  God  may  keep  them  in  his  care. 

This  thought  upon  the  balance  sway — 
The  price  we  give, 

The  price  we  pay. 

— “Glasgow  News.” 


BRITISH  BORN  WOMEN  AND  THE  WAR. 

David  Abmitage 

Written  specially  for  this  Book  by  the  Poet- Laureate  of  Worcester. 

What  have  British-born  women  done  to  help  belov’d 
ones  home? 

The  sacrifices  they  have  made  are  known  to  God  alone! 

Freely  of  what  they  had  in  store  they  sent  across  the 
sea 

To  render  aid  to  lov’d  ones  there  and  serve  posterity! 

British-born  women  love  their  race  and  recognize  the 
Cross 

That  must  be  borne  to  exalt  men  to  count  their  lives 
as  dross 

The  British  standard  to  maintain! — small  nations  to 
be  free! 

To  hold  their  place  through  “Golden  Rule,”  not 
through  autocracy! 

British-born  women  in  anguish!  Oh,  who  can  tell 
the  story! 

What  pen  describe  the  tragic  fate  of  kin  whose  end  was 
glory! 

Their  homeland  in  the  throes  of  war — whatever  may 
betide 

Their  pulses  beat  in  deadly  fear  for  those  whom  seas 
divide. 

Full  well  they  know  that  God  is  just — that  He  will 
point  the  way 

To  end  the  strife  that  saps  the  life  and  makes  nations 
decay! 

The  Lord  of  Hosts  will  raise  Belgium,  make  Germans 
bend  the  knee 

The  War-Lord’s  crown  may  tumble  down  if  such  be 
the  decree! 

Great  Britain’s  sons  are  gathering  to  make  a mighty 
host 

That  will  sweep  German  invaders  back  from  the  Bel- 
gian Coast! 

The  day  will  come,  for  come  it  must,  when  Prussia’s 
bloody  lust 

Must  be  destroyed  forevermore  and  trampled  in  the 
dust! 

Worcester,  Mass.,  Jan.  18,  1915. 


WE  GIVE  THANKS. 


Acknowledgment  is  herewith  made  to 
The  Davis  Press,  the  Wesby  Bindery 
and  Howard-Wesson  Co.,  for  their  gener- 
ous contribution  in  the  production  of 
this  volume  at  manufacturers’  cost  for 
the  benefit  of  the  cause.  Thanks  are 
also  due  to  a number  of  friends  who  have 
contributed  excellent  selections. 


He  lives  who  dies 
To  win  a lasting  name. 

Drummond. 


LIEGE 


“Betwixt  the  foe  and  France  was  she, 
France  the  immortal,  France  the  free, 

The  foe  like  one  vast  living  sea 
Drew  nigh. 

“He  dreamed  that  none  his  tide  would  stay, 
But,  when  he  bade  her  to  make  way 

She,  through  her  cannon  answered  ‘nay, 
Not  I.’ 

No  tremor  and  no  fear  she  showed; 

She  held  the  pass,  she  barred  the  road. 

While  death’s  unsleeping  feet  bestrode 
The  ground. 

“So  long  as  deeds  of  noblest  worth 
Are  sung  mid  joy  and  tears  and  mirth, 

Her  glory  shall  to  the  ends  of  earth 
Resound. 

“Watched  by  a world  that  yearned  to  aid, 
Lonely  she  stood  but  undismayed; 

Resplendent  was  the  part  she  played 
And  pure. 

“Praised  by  her  heroes,  proud  her  sons 
She  threw  her  souls  into  the  guns. 

Her  name  shall  with  the  loveliest  ones 
Endure.  ” 

William  Watson 

In  “London  Chronicle.”  Aug.  18,  1914. 


“I  AM  A BELGIAN.” 


In  that  Valhalla  where  the  heroes  go 

A careful  sentinel  paced  to  and  fro 

Before  the  gate,  burnt  black  with  battle  smoke, 

Whose  echoes  to  the  tread  of  armed  men  woke, 

And  up  the  fiery  stairs  whose  steps  are  spears 
Came  the  pale  heroes  of  the  bloodstained  years. 

There  were  lean  Caesars  from  the  glory  fields 
With  heart  that  only  to  a sword-thrust  yields; 

And  there  were  generals  decked  in  pride  of  rank, 

Red  scabbard  swinging  from  the  weary  flank; 

And  slender  youths,  who  were  the  sons  of  kings, 

And  barons  with  their  sixteen  quarterings. 

And  while  the  nobles  went  with  haughty  air 
The  courteous  sentinel  questioned:  “Who  goes  there?” 
And  as  each  came,  full  lustily  he  cried 
His  string  of  titles,  ere  he  passed  inside. 

And  presently  there  was  a little  man, 

A silent  mover  in  the  regal  van. 

His  hand  still  grasped  his  rifle,  and  his  eyes 
Seemed  blinded  with  the  light  from  Paradise. 

His  was  a humble  guise,  a modest  air- — 

The  sentinel  held  him  sharply:  “Who  goes  there?” 

There  were  no  gauds  tacked  to  that  simple  name, 

But  every  naked  blade  leapt  out  like  flame, 

And  every  blue-blood  warrior  bowed  his  head — 

“I  am  a Belgian,”  this  was  all  he  said. 

Men’s  cheering  echoed  thro’  the  battle’s  Hell; 

“Pass  in,  mon  brave,”  said  that  wise  sentinel. 

M.  Forrest  in  “London  Spectator.” 


Queen  Elizabeth  of  Belgium 


INTRODUCTORY. 


Of  all  the  volumes  written  about  the  Great  World 
War,  its  origin,  who  is  to  blame,  its  tremendous  scope, 
its  colossal  cost  in  men  and  money,  its  effect  on  the 
map  of  Europe,  when  it  will  end  and  which  side  will 
win,  this  is  the  first  book  published  in  this  country,  so 
far  as  we  can  learn,  containing  songs  and  poetic  effu- 
sions of  the  cruel  struggle.  It  comprises  a collection 
of  war  songs  and  poems,  written  by  men  and  women, 
old  and  young,  resident  in  both  hemispheres,  by  neu- 
trals and  people  who  could  not  be  neutral  if  they  would. 

This  volume,  therefore,  is  entirely  unique.  Its 
verses  are  inspired  by  all  the  temperamental  charac- 
teristics in  men  and  women — war  and  peace,  love  and 
hate,  patriotism  and  poltroonery,  humor  and  sarcasm, 
pathos  and  poignancy.  And  there  are  verses  on  con- 
templation, condemnation,  devastation,  death,  and 
some  on  the  Kaiser  and  his  minions. 

The  reader  will  find  such  a variety  of  poetic  inspi- 
rations that  it  would  be  strange,  indeed,  if  he  or  she 
agreed  with  everything  contained  between  its  covers. 
The  war  is  looked  at  from  every  conceivable  angle — by 
those  who  were  on  the  bloody  battlefields  and  by  those 
who  are  divided  by  four  thousand  miles  of  water  from 
the  fields  of  carnage. 

The  compiler  has  been  exceedingly  fortunate  in 
receiving  from  his  friends  in  Great  Britain  the  maga- 
zines and  newspapers  of  the  “Tight  Little  Island” 
from  which  these  poems  were  culled  during  the  first 
half-year  of  the  war,  and  presents  for  your  approval 
this  varied  collection,  which  is  probably  the  most  ex- 
tensive of  its  character  in  the  United  States. 

The  principal  reason  for  the  publication  of  this 
Book,  however,  at  this  time  is  our  wish  to  assist  the 
British  Bom  Women’s  Association  of  Worcester  in  its 
efforts  to  help  the  Belgian  refugees  in  Great  Britain  and 
the  widows  and  orphans  of  the  British  soldiers  and  sail- 
ors of  the  war.  We  have  offered  the  proceeds  of  this 
edition  of  the  work,  after  the  cost  of  production,  to  this 
organization,  and  trust  our  efforts  will  be  an  incentive 
to  others  to  make  the  sale  of  the  Book  as  extensive  as 
possible,  having  in  view  the  cause  for  which  these  wo- 
men are  working. 


8 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


The  first  accounts  of  the  truly  gallant  stand  made 
by  the  plucky  Belgians,  as  they  witnessed  the  devas- 
tation of  their  peaceful  country  and  the  murder  of  their 
innocent  population,  brought  out  the  desire  for  imme- 
diate help  to  feed  and  clothe  the  women  and  children 
driven  so  ruthlessly  from  hearth  and  country.  Wor- 
cester’s women,  overawed  by  the  enormity  of  the  crime 
perpetrated  on  innocent  Belgium,  the  utter  disregard 
for  an  honorable  compact  as  exemplified  in  “a  scrap  of 
paper,”  and  the  gigantic  scope  of  the  conflict,  as  nation 
after  nation  became  embroiled  in  the  war  maelstrom, 
did  not  take  long  to  organize  for  work.  The  great  big 
woman  heart  of  the  Heart  of  the  Commonwealth  of 
Massachusetts  throbbed  strong  and  quick  for  the  un- 
fortunate refugees  who  had  found  a warm  welcome  and 
open  arms  from  Old  Mother  Britannia,  and  money  and 
clothing  and  food  have  poured  forth  unstintingly  from 
Worcester  to  alleviate  the  distress  during  the  past  few 
months.  This  work,  apparently,  must  be  carried  on 
as  long  as  the  call  for  assistance  comes  from  across  the 
water. 

When  the  war  broke  out,  Great  Britain  saw  that 
it’s  smaller  sister,  Belgium,  was  to  be  ruthlessly  sacri- 
ficed for  defending  its  home.  England  sprang  to  arms; 
the  slogan  across  the  border  was  “Scotland’s  burning;” 
Ireland  was  ready — aye  ready  in  emergencies  for  a 
scrap  for  justice  and  honor,  and  the  principality  of 
Wales  stood  at  attention  to  follow  where  the  Union 
Jack  might  lead  its  soldiers  on. 

The  sacred  fire  of  patriotism  burned  in  every  British 
heart.  The  response  to  arms  came — as  it  always  did 
in  British  history,  from  the  lonely  hamlet,  the  city 
home,  the  gilded  castle.  In  those  homes  today  the 
hearts  of  the  people  whom  the  soldiers  and  sailors  loved 
are  sad  and  lonely.  It  has  been  stated  that  178  peers 
of  the  realm  are  serving  in  the  British  Army — a glorious 
record  indeed,  and  one  which  Great  Britain  may  justly 
feel  proud  of.  And  there  are  2,000  000  men — every 
one  of  them  a peer — to  be  found  in  the  ranks — the  most 
glorious  achievement  in  the  annals  of  British  warfare. 

The  British  Empire,  on  which  the  sun  never  sets, 
honors  its  soldiers  and  sailors.  One  English  mother  has 
nine  sons  at  the  front  fighting  for  King  and  Country. 
One  crofter  woman  in  Skye  sent  seven  sons  to  war,  all 
of  them  braw  lads  who  joined  the  kilted  Scotch  regi- 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


9 


ments.  Truly  this  Inverness-shire  widow  did  her 
“bit.”  Never  before  in  the  history  of  the  Empire 
have  80,000  men  comprising  a portion  of  Great  Britain’s 
land  fighting  force  responded  to  the  call  to  arms  wear- 
ing the  kilt  and  bonnet  and  plaid.  There  are  many 
sections  of  Great  Britain  where  not  an  able  bodied  man 
has  been  left  in  the  small  villages,  every  one  of  them 
responding  to  the  calk  either  for  the  army  or  the  navy. 

The  contingent  which  went  from  Newfoundland,  a 
fine  body  of  men,  have  been  quartered  away  up  in  the 
northern  section  of  Scotland  in  Fort  George,  and  there 
they  are  being  trained  for  the  more  severe  test  which 
will  come  to  them  when  they  get  into  the  trenches. 
When  these  men  were  welcomed  to  their  new  martial 
surroundings,  it  was  stated  by  one  of  the  leading  citi- 
zens that  what  the  enemy  has  done  in  Belgium  will 
steep  the  German  name  in  infamy  as  long  as  there  is 
any  regard  for  right  and  justice  in  Europe.  The  re- 
sponse to  arms  of  England,  of  Wales  and  Ireland,  of 
Canada,  India,  Australia  and  other  colonies  has  won 
the  admiration  of  the  world. 

It  has  been  reported  by  the  officers  of  an  English 
trawler  which  brought  to  port  70  of  the  men  saved  from 
the  disaster  of  the  Formidable  that  one  of  the  boats 
capsized  as  it  was  being  launched  into  the  raging  sea, 
and  the  British  Jackies  went  to  their  doom  singing  “It’s 
a long  way  to  Tipperary.”  There  is  a rival  in  France 
to  “Tipperary.”  “Alouette,  Gentille  Alouette,  je  t’y 
Pluerai,  ” gaining  its  popularity  through  the  efforts  of 
the  5th  Royal  Highlanders  of  Canada,  which  brought 
the  song  across  the  Atlantic  when  the  first  expedition- 
ary force  arrived  in  England,  prior  to  going  into  train- 
ing at  Salisbury  Plains. 

Among  those  who  will  stand  in  British  history  as 
authors  of  poems,  side  by  side  with  Newbolt,  Masefield, 
Kipling,  Noyes  Bridges,  is  William  Watson,  who  was 
born  in  Yorkshire,  over  half  a century  ago,  and  who 
wrote  one  of  the  earliest  of  the  war  songs,  more  as  a 
counter  blast  to  German  activities  in  this  country  for 
sympathy  of  the  Americans.  It  was  a song  addressed 
to  the  United  States  soon  after  this  country  had  de- 
clared its  neutrality.  By  many  people,  disappointment 
was  felt  at  the  phraseology  used  by  Watson  in  the  last 
few  lines  of  his  sonnet,  finding  fault  with  this  great 


10 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


nation  for  its  rightful  attitude  of  neutrality.  Here  is 
the  sonnet: 

Art  thou  her  child,  bom  in  the  proud  midday 
Of  her  large  soul’s  abundance  and  excess: 

Her  daughter  and  her  mightiest  heritress, 

Dowered  with  her  thoughts,  and  lit  on  her  great  way 
By  her  great  lamps  that  shine  and  fail  not?  Yes! 

And  at  this  thunderous  hour  of  struggle  and  stress, 
Hither  across  the  ocean  wilderness, 

What  word  comes  frozen  on  the  frozen  spray? 
Neutrality!  The  tiger  from  his  den, 

Springs  at  thy  mother’s  throat,  and  canst  thou  now 
Watch  with  a stranger’s  gaze?  So  be  it  then! 

Thy  loss  is  more  than  hers;  for,  bruised  and  torn. 

She  shall  yet  live  without  thine  aid,  and  thou 
Without  the  crown  divine  thou  might’st  have  worn. 


We  endeavored  to  select  the  songs  with  care  and 
judgment.  We  frankly  confess  that  our  goal  of  am- 
bition with  this  work  was  not  so  much  that  it  should  be 
a literary  effort  as  a financial  success.  We  desire 
to  make  money  for  this  cause.  But  we  hope  to  obtain 
both  ideals.  We  await  the  public  decision  with  interest. 
We  invite  you,  reader,  to  assist  us  by  urging  your  friends 
to  purchase  this  book  if  you  find  in  it  something  that 
appeals  to  your  literary  palate.  We  recognized  in 
each  poem  or  song,  a thought,  a suggestion,  a humorous 
sally,  or  touch  of  sarcasm  that  perhaps  was  not  con- 
tained in  some  other. 

The  places  from  which  the  selections  were  taken  are 
wide  apart,  from  Land’s  End  to  John  O’Groat’s,  while 
others  were  written  in  far-off  India,  in  Australia,  Africa, 
and  quite  a number  in  Massachusetts. 

The  most  popular  war  song  of  the  day,  with  the 
Allies  is  “It’s  a long  way  to  Tipperary,”  and  the  same 
may  be  said  of  those  who  are  not  belligerents.  Both 
in  the  trenches  of  the  Allies  and  at  the  various  army 
depots,  as  the  men  gather  for  training  before  going  to 
the  front  this  song  is  popular  among  all  others,  because 
of  its  rhythm  and  humorous  sentiments.  It  is  all  the 
rage  and  promises  to  remain  so  as  long  as  the  war  lasts, 
at  least. 

But  there  are  other  good  marching  songs,  and  these 
are  sung  extensively  by  the  British  regiments.  Nat- 
urally, there  has  also  been  a great  harvest  of  doggerel, 
much  of  which  met  its  Waterloo  in  the  concert  halls 
and  mediocre  theaters  of  Great  Britain.  Scores  of 
those  which  we  have  seen  have  had  “Taps”  sounded 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


11 


at  the  close  of  their  first  rendition,  and  there  were  no 
mourners,  outside  of  the  writers,  left  to  bury  them. 
And  justly  so. 

When  all  is  said  in  favor  of  the  quality  of  the  good 
old  patriotic  songs,  it  must  be  admitted  that  “Tipper- 
ary” is  the  prime  war  classic  of  the  world  war  today. 
Another  song  which  has  appealed  strongly  to  thousands 
of  soldiers  and  those  of  patriotic  heart,  is  entitled  “The 
flag  that  never  comes  down.”  It  has  made  a hit  in 
concert  halls  in  the  United  Kingdom. 

“The  flag  that  never  comes  down,”  is  the  Daily 
Sketch  war  song  and  the  profits  from  its  sale  go  to  the 
Prince  of  Wales  Fund.  Few  of  the  old  English  or  Scot- 
tish songs  are  really  suited  for  marching,  though  many 
of  them  are  full  of  patriotism  and  very  inspiring. 

One  of  the  things  deplored  in  this  war  is  the  fact 
that  Great  Britain  does  not  possess  a really  good  na- 
tional battle  song.  Britain  has  no  “Marseillaise,” 
and  so  Tommy  Atkins,  who  ought  to  know  what  he 
wants  to  sing  on  the  march,  has  chosen  “Tipperary” 
and  “Get  out  and  get  under.” 

Thousands  of  Kitchener’s  soldiers  have  marched 
through  the  streets  of  Great  Britain  without  any  music 
accompaniment.  It  is  not  practical  now  to  have  bands 
at  the  battle  front,  and  a new  battle  era  has  come  along 
since  the  time  when  Piper  Findlater  piped  his  gallant 
kilted  soldiers  up  the  Heights  of  Dargai  and  chased  the 
foe  away.  Incidently,  it  is  interesting  to  all  Britishers, 
Scotchmen  particularly,  to  know  that  Piper  Findlater 
enlisted  the  other  day  and  brought  his  inspiring  bag- 
pipes along  with  him.  He  will  probably  have  some 
chance  to  cheer  the  “Kilties”  on  the  battlefield  against 
the  Huns  before  the  war  is  over. 

Either  in  music  or  dancing,  the  Scotchmen  like  to 
have  some  fun,  even  amidst  the  horrors  of  the  present 
war.  There  have  been  many  strange  things  happening 
between  the  British  soldiers  and  the  Germans  while 
they  were  facing  each  other  only  a few  yards  away  in 
their  respective  trenches.  At  Christmas  time,  when 
there  was  a general  cessation  of  hostilities,  the  spirit 
of  the  day  seemed  to  come  over  both  sides  and  the  rifle 
was  laid  aside  to  give  a chance  for  an  exchange  of 
“Christmas  goodies.”  During  a lull  in  the  fighting, 
Lieut,  the  Hon.  William  Fraser  of  the  Gordon  High- 
landers at  Ypres,  got  out  from  the  trenches  and  danced 


12 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


the  Highland  Fling,  without  music  and  much  to  the 
delight  of  the  other  Scotties  near  him.  It  is  such  di- 
version as  this  which  has  helped  to  lighten  the  awful 
burden  of  constant  fighting  and  “watchful  waiting” 
in  the  trenches. 

The  songs  and  poems  of  the  war,  must,  of  necessity, 
in  a great  world  wide  conflagration  like  the  present, 
touch  on  almost  every  phase  of  the  subject  imaginable. 
They  are  catchy  and  rhythmic,  epigrammatic  and  lyric, 
of  long  metre  and  short  metre,  and  no  metre  at  all. 
They  denounce  the  aggressiveness  of  the  Prussian  mili- 
tarists for  throwing  Europe  into  the  war,  the  call  to 
arms  is  sounded  by  the  men  who  are  to  save  the  world 
from  the  military  spirit  and  prevent  the  Kaiser  from 
being  the  King  of  Europe  and  Dictator  of  the  World. 
They  speak  of  the  patriotism  which  has  impelled  the 
young  men  to  enlist  at  the  call  of  king  and  country,  of 
the  magnificent  response  of  the  allied  countries,  of  their 
glorious  fighting  on  the  battlefield  and  the  enumeration 
of  doughty  deeds  by  doughty  men  on  land  and  sea,  of 
the  great  sacrifices  made  by  women,  and  of  the  hope 
that  the  war  will  soon  come  to  a conclusion,  with  the 
Allies  victorious  and  Prussian  militarism  forever  ban- 
ished from  the  world. 

As  in  the  days  of  old,  music,  vocal  and  instrumental, 
play  an  exceedingly  important  part  in  the  progress  and 
the  success  of  the  war.  Today,  as  of  yore,  music  is 
heard  while  on  the  march  and  in  the  trenches.  It  was 
stated  not  long  ago  that  the  French  minister  of  war,  M. 
Millerand,  commissioned  the  Breton  bard,  Theodore 
Botrel,  to  visit  the  camps  of  the  Allies  and  stir  the  pa- 
triotism of  the  troops  with  his  songs  and  recitations. 
Botrel  has  inherited  to  a marvellous  degree  the  poetical 
genius  of  his  Celtic  ancestors,  and  his  jolly  songs  have 
immensely  encouraged  and  inspired  his  hearers.  This 
same  thing  was  done  in  our  own  Civil  War,  more  par- 
ticularly among  the  men  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac, 
when  the  command  was  in  winter  quarters. 

Many  of  the  songs  and  poems  in  this  book  are  print- 
ed in  the  United  States  for  the  first  time  and  a goodly 
number  of  them  from  manuscript.  This  is  specially 
true  of  verses  by  Worcester’s  poetical  celebrities,  which 
are  fully  up  to  the  standard  of  the  genius  of  many  note- 
worthy writers  of  verse  in  Great  Britain. 


SONGS  OP  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


13 


Other  selections,  and  these  comprise  the  biggest 
bulk  of  the  Book,  have  been  culled  from  the  leading 
British  magazines  and  dailies  and  acknowledgment 
gladly  made  of  the  authors  and  the  publication  in  which 
the  songs  were  printed.  In  this  connection  we  have 
also  to  acknowledge  with  thanks  the  contributions  of 
a few  friends  who  not  only  sent  their  own  writings  on 
this  subject,  but  interested  others  to  send  us  songs  which 
at  first  reading  struck  a responsive  chord  in  their  hearts. 
The  splendid  efforts  of  the  writer’s  friends  in  Great 
Britain  to  furnish  us  the  choicest  of  the  selections  print- 
ed in  “The  Tight  Little  Island”  are  herewith  acknowl- 
edged and  thanks  awarded  to  all  authors  and  publishers 
who  have  given  permission  to  reproduce  their  verses. 

Another  purpose  of  this  volume  is  well  served  if  it 
furnishes  an  opportunity  to  the  average  American 
citizen,  of  perusing  the  poetic  effusions,  the  rollicking 
humor,  and  the  ebullitions  of  temper  and  hate  so  well 
displayed  in  the  lines  penned  by  those  nearer  to  the 
deathly  struggle  now  going  on.  We  trust  it  will  help 
to  focus  the  minds  of  those  in  the  Heart  of  the  Common- 
wealth, in  New  England,  wherever  the  book  may  find 
a favored  place  on  a library  table,  on  the  war  situation, 
more  closely  and  from  various  angles  than  could  pos- 
sibly be  done  outside  of  a visit  to  the  battle  scenes. 

As  soon  as  the  war  broke  out  and  the  people  of  Great 
Britain  had  recovered  from  the  initial  shock  of  its  com- 
prehensiveness, brutality,  and  world-wide  seriousness, 
the  verse-writers  of  Great  Britain — in  fact,  of  every- 
where, were  stirred  to  the  depths  of  their  innermost 
beings.  The  result  is  that  rousing  war  songs  and  poetic 
effusions,  good,  bad  and  indifferent,  and  the  latter  were 
in  larger  bulk,  found  ready  space  in  magazine  and  news- 
paper. 

There  are  included  in  this  volume  the  opinions  in 
verse  of  several  hundred  individuals.  The  efforts  of 
almost  as  many  more,  a great  number  of  them  of  merit, 
have  been  reluctantly  declined  publicity  in  this  volume 
simply  for  the  want  of  space.  These  writers  have  been 
inspired  to  indite  their  views  on  the  many  phases  of  the 
war,  just  as  the  mood  happened  to  strike  them.  Many 
of  them  speak  of  the  war  in  all  its  hideousness,  some  are 
very  emphatic  in  regard  to  who  is  to  blame,  others 
speak  of  the  experiences  of  the  battlefield,  of  the  march- 
ing of  armed  millions  to  their  death,  the  life  of  the  sol- 


14 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


diers  on  the  entrenched  battlefield  and  of  the  eternal 
vigilance  of  the  sailors  roaming  on  the  ocean  and  be- 
neath it,  while  the  latest  phase  of  modern  warfare  has 
not  been  forgotten  and  a eulogium  has  been  passed  on 
the  daring  bird-man  and  the  zeppelin  conductor.  Some 
have  treated  sympathetically  of  the  innocent  and  bro- 
ken-hearted Belgians. 

Woman,  young  and  old,  rich  and  poor,  has  done  her 
“bit”  to  aid  her  stalwart  sons  and  husbands  and  broth- 
ers to  bring  glory  to  their  nation  in  this  war.  On 
both  sides  of  the  battle  fronts,  the  women  of  the  sol- 
diers at  home  and  behind  the  battle  lines  are  doing  their 
part.  Some  of  them  have  even  been  found  to  have 
enlisted  and  it  was  weeks  and  months  before  their  sex 
was  discovered,  so  well  did  they  quit  themselves  like 
men.  Others  not  so  courageous  as  to  go  to  the  battle 
lines,  are  in  the  Red  Cross  armies  near  the  front,  while 
still  others — the  larger  portion  of  womanhood,  have 
contented  themselves  with  the  magnificent  work  which 
has  been  accomplished  in  helping  to  make  the  terrible 
warfare  easier,  and  to  bring  the  injured  back  to  life  the 
quicker.  It  has  been  said  that  hundreds  of  Russian 
school  girls  have  run  away  from  home  in  boys’  clothing 
and  tried  to  enlist  as  volunteers.  Among  the  wounded 
in  the  battle  of  Nieman  was  a broad-shouldered  girl 
from  one  of  the  country  districts,  whose  disguise  was 
not  discovered  until  she  reached  the  field  hospital. 

Many  curious  methods  have  been  adopted  by  wo- 
men to  show  their  partiality  to  one  side  or  the  other, 
and  one  of  the  attractive  young  women  of  Scotland — 
Miss  Bunty  Morrison  of  Macduff,  has  been  doing  her 
“bit”  by  shooting  rabbits  and  game  on  her  fathers’ 
estate,  and  sending  what  fell  to  her  gun  to  the  Belgian 
Relief  Fund. 

It  is  not  the  intention  of  the  compiler  of  this  volume 
to  write  on  the  merits  of  the  war.  That  is  not  needed 
and  officially  this  United  States  is  strictly  neutral. 
Long  may  it  remain  so.  But,  individually,  it  must  be 
admitted  that  the  overwhelming  sympathy  of  the  peo- 
ple of  this  great  nation  seems  to  be  with  the  Allies. 
There  are  various  reasons  for  this,  and  probably  the 
most  important  is  that  of  the  brilliant,  glorious  stand 
made  by  the  Belgian  soldiers  who  desired  to  protect 
their  land,  their  homes  and  people,  their  industries,  art, 
commerce,  from  the  destroyer,  just  because  she  desired 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


15 


to  uphold  the  sanctity  of  “A  scrap  of  paper.”  The 
suggestion  that  the  heart  of  America  is  with  the  Allies, 
is  proved  mainly  by  generous  gifts  of  money,  clothing, 
food,  valued  at  millions  of  dollars  which  have  been  sent 
across  the  Atlantic  to  alleviate  the  suffering. 

The  world — that  portion  of  it  not  embroiled  in  the 
war,  has  gone  out  in  practical  sympathy  and  in  myriads 
of  ways  to  the  bereaved  and  injured  caused  by  the  war. 

The  United  States  has  sent,  and  is  still  sending, 
from  its  capacious  storehouses  of  food,  money  and 
clothing,  vast  quantities  so  that  never  in  the  history 
of  the  world  has  there  been  such  magnanimous  liberal- 
ity long-sustained  shown  by  any  nation  towards  another 
as  that  in  the  case  of  the  United  States  towards  the 
Allied  Powers,  as  well  as  to  the  sufferers  in  Germany, 
Austria  and  Hungary.  It  has  been  estimated  that  in 
the  first  four  months  of  the  war  the  United  States 
raised  $20,000,000  for  relief,  representing  both  factions 
at  war,  and  $9,000,000  of  this  have  gone  to  Belgium, 
$3,500,000  to  Germany,  and  much  more,  indeed,  since 
that  first  estimate. 

It  would  not  be  germain  to  our  purpose  in  this  Book 
to  make  anything  but  a brief  mention  of  the  great  mili- 
tary geniuses  who  are  shaping  the  destinies  of  the  Allied 
Armies  of  the  powerful  nations  banded  together  to  se- 
cure the  downfall  of  militarism.  Gen.  Joffre,  the  silent, 
Lord  Kitchener,  the  autocrat,  Jellico  the  patient,  the 
Grand  Duke,  the  strategist  and  disciple  of  “the  watch- 
ful waiting”  propaganda.  They  are  master  minds 
of  the  military  and  naval  art  who  are  to  remake  the 
map  of  Europe,  bring  militarism  into  subjugation  and 
be  subject  to  the  rule  of  world-wide  democracy. 

The  dreadful  destruction  of  humanity  in  this  most 
terrible  of  wars,  includes,  on  both  sides  of  the  conflict, 
great  soldiers,  noble  sailors,  skilled  financiers,  captains 
of  industry,  statesmen,  merchants,  talented  representa- 
tives of  the  professions,  men  and  the  greatest  of  these 
are  MEN.  The  rank  and  file  is  after  all  the  most  potent 
factor  in  the  winning  of  battles,  led  on,  as  they  have 
been,  by  brilliant  officers. 

Millions  of  homes  in  Europe  and  the  United  King- 
dom, aye,  and  some  in  the  United  States  and  Canada, 
are  in  mourning  today. 

Each  of  the  noble  men  who  faced  death  to  fight  for 
what  they  felt  was  Right,  have  met  their  “Pilot,  face 


16 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


to  face.  ” Of  each,  again,  may  it  not  be  said,  that  the 
words  of  Tennyson,  in  his  most  beautiful  verses,  are 
exceedingly  appropriate. 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 

And  may  there  be  no  moaning  at  the  bar, 

When  I put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 

When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 
Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I embark; 

For  tho’  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 
The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 

I hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 
When  I have  crost  the  bar. 


Worcester,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


Donald  Tulloch 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


17 


THE  ROLL  OF  THE  WAR  DRUMS. 

From  the  Ms.  by  Marvin  M.  Taylor 

What  are  the  drum  beats  that  we  hear 
From  the  castled  Rhine  and  Teuton  woods? 

The  roll  that  calls  to  arms,  to  arms! 

To  man  the  ships!  To  load  the  guns, 

Which  have  been  wrought  with  giant  plot — 

In  years  of  seeming  peace — for  war, 

To  crush  the  sunny  land  of  France; 

And  even,  by  a farther  chance, 

To  crumble  England’s  mighty  power, 

And  force  the  Russian  beer  to  cower — 

The  roll  which  calls  for  power,  power! 
and 

“Deutschland  uber  Alles!” 

But  the  echoes  are  shouts  of  a war  made  race 
That  spurns  the  scythe  for  the  iron  mace, 

And  has  rushed  to  camp,  and  the  distaff  cast 
Aside,  to  seize  the  sword  haft; 

And  there  mingle  the  wails  of  a land  laid  waste 
When  the  avenging  foes  burst  through  the  gates, 
And  the  wild  despair  of  a nation’s  moan 
When  it  reaps  the  whirlwind  it  has  sown! 

What  are  the  drum  beats  that  we  hear 
From  the  Land  of  Chimes  by  the  northern  sea? 
The  roll  that  spurs  a blameless  folk 
At  least  to  dare  and  die  against 
A foe  that  scoffs  at  solemn  pledge, 

A foe  that  knows  no  right  but  might, 

That  sneers  at  unoffending  men 
Who,  beaten,  fight  and  fight  again, 

And  crashes  through  their  smiling  lands 
With  trampling  hosts  and  vandal  bands, 
and 

Monster  guns  like  juggernauts! 

But  the  echoes  are  sighs  through  silent  mills, 

And  wasted  homes  by  running  rills, 

Cathedrals  prone  in  cloistered  yards, 

And  villages  reduced  to  shards — 

A nation  en  route — save  the  men  who  fight — 

Like  shepherdless  sheep  from  wolves  aflight, 

And  mothers,  with  naught  for  their  babes  to  share, 
The  highways  glutting  with  despair; 


18 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


A nation  with  nothing  left  to  keep 
But  their  eyes  too  terror-dazed  to  weep. 


What  are  the  drum  beats  that  we  hear 
From  Vosges  crags  to  North  Sea  sands? 

The  roll  that  links  the  battling  lines 

Of  bayonets  and  belching  guns 

From  fort  to  fort,  from  trench  to  trench — 

A nation’s  cable  sternly  forged 
Against  a foe  with  power  gorged, 

Each  link  of  freemen,  fiercely  set 
Their  land  to  save,  and  not  to  let 
The  war  mad  hordes  their  homes  beset 
and 

Make  another  Belgium! 

But  the  echoes  are  vineclad  slopes  destroyed, 
And  streams  with  blood  and  wreckage  cloyed, 
Long  trains  of  mangled  soldiers  sped 
To  waiting  graves  or  painful  bed; 

And  crowded  camps,  no  joy  within, 

But  orphaned  children,  wan  and  thin, 

Their  fathers  dead,  their  mothers  worse, 
War’s  ripest  fruit  and  perfect  curse! 


What  are  the  drum  beats  that  we  hear 
Borne  o’er  the  waves  from  Britain’s  shores? 

The  roll  that,  staunch  to  promise  made, 

And  cherishing  a weaker  friend, 

Throws  off  the  hausers,  anchors  heave, 

And  cut  the  waves  in  eager  flight 
To  join  the  world’s  defensive  fight; 

Meanwhile  far  calling  to  her  sons 
Across  the  seas  to  come,  to  come, 
and 

Save  the  world’s  rich  heritage! 

And  the  echoes  are  women’s  cheers  through  tears 
When  from  the  wharves  the  transport  clears; 

And  answering  shouts  the  whole  world  round, 

Of  eager  sons  all  motherward  bound, 

From  Canadian  woods,  and  Indian  plain, 

And  the  mighty  isle  of  the  Southern  Main, 

“We  come,  we  come!  Our  hearts  are  there 
Before  our  lives  your  perils  share!” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


19 


What  are  the  drum  beats  that  we  hear 
From  the  battling  hordes  on  the  Eastern  Line, 
Muscovite,  Pole,  Cossack  and  Tzech? 

The  roll  of  another  mighty  tide 

From  Russian  steppes  and  Balkan  steeps; 

But  not  to  conquer  again  do  they  come, 

Nor  to  hammer  again  at  the  gates  of  Rome, 

But  to  deluge  back  the  invading  host 
That  ruthlessly  thunders  at  their  coast 
To  conquer  them,  and  prove  their  boast 
and 

Greed  of  universal  power! 

But  the  echoes  are  tramp  of  millions  more, 

From  home  of  Serb  and  Muzhik’s  door, 

Of  live  men  trampling  over  dead, 

To  death-dealing  death  and  slaughter  led, 

While  hospital  bed  and  prison  pen 
Are  gorged  with  mangled  and  moody  men, 

Who  brood  on  the  homes  where  the  mothers  weep, 
And  their  children  wondering  vigil  keep! 

What  are  the  drum  beats  that  we  hear 
From  Pilgrim  Rock  to  Golden  Gate? 

The  roll  of  a people  free  and  safe, 

Strong  to  be  feared  but  feared  by  none, 

Untouched  by  war  or  dread  of  it; 

Yet  into  the  war  America  sprang, 

Into  the  carnage  her  cohorts  flung, 

Her  swift  keels  cut  the  tossing  seas — 

But  the  flags  they  fling  to  the  speeding  breeze 
are 

Banners  of  mercy  and  pennons  of  peace! 
And  the  echoes  are  cheers  when  the  food  ships  clear, 
And  again  when  the  Flemish  ports  they  near, 
Laden  with  gifts  it  were  pain  to  keep 
From  a people  who  pity  to  a people  who  weep. 
Though  not  convoyed  by  battle  ships, 

The  grim  war  crafts  their  ensigns  dip 
To  the  ships  of  mercy  on  their  way, 

A . blessing-bearing  Armada! 

What  are  the  drum  beats  that  we  hear 
When  the  hell  of  it  ends  and  the  war  is  done? 

The  judgment  roll  of  the  human  race, 

Aghast  at  the  devastation  wrought; 


20 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


The  roll  that  shall  ring  a curse  on  war, 

On  the  fruitless  folly  and  crime  of  it, 

And  king  or  people  who  father  it — 

That  never  again  shall  a hero  make 
Who  ruins  the  world  for  dominion’s  sake, 
or 

For  any  land  “uber  alles!” 

And  the  echoes  shall  be  a chastened  world, 

A world  with  all  its  war  flags  furled, 

A world  that  shall  bow  at  the  shrine  of  peace 
Till  the  Judgment  Day  when  time  shall  cease; 
A world  that  has  learned  the  Christian  Way, 
And  shall  keep  one  vast  Memorial  Day— 

With  its  heel  on  the  throat  of  the  war  god  set — 
Lest  it  forget!  Lest  it  forget! 

Worcester,  Mass. 


WAR  SONG 

Scots  wha  hae  wi’  Roberts  bled, 
Britons,  Kitchener  has  led, 

Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  Victory! 

Now’s  the  Day,  and  now’s  the  Hour! 
See  the  front  of  battle  lour! 

See  the  Kaiser’s  vaulting  power — 
Chains  and  slavery! 

Wha  wad  be  a traitor  knave, 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a slave, 

Wha  wad  fill  a coward’s  grave, 

Let  him  turn  and  flee! 

Ho!  for  England’s  King  and  laws, 
Nation’s  rights  and  Freedom’s  cause, 
Ho!  for  Righteousness  and  Truth 
Within  this  realm  of  ours. 

Briton,  Scotsmen,  Ireland’s  braves 
Unfurl  the  banner;  cross  the  waves; 

And  in  one  mighty  host  combine. 

To  drive  the  foe  across  the  Rhine. 

Edward  Hull  in  the  “Outlook.” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


21 


WAR 

I abhor, 

And  yet  how  sweet 
The  sound  along  the  marching  street 
Of  drum  and  fife,  and  I forget 
Broken  old  mothers,  and  the  whole 
Dark  butchery  without  a soul. 

Without  a soul — save  this  bright  drink 
Of  heavy  music,  sweet  as  hell; 

And  even  my  peace-abiding  feet 

Go  on  marching  with  the  marching  feet. 

For  yonder,  yonder,  goes  the  fife, 

And  what  care  I for  human  life! 

The  tears  fill  my  astonished  eyes 
And  my  full  heart  is  like  to  break; 

And  yet  ’tis  all  embannered  lies — 

A dream  those  drummers  make. 

Oh,  it  is  wickedness  to  clothe 
Yon  hideous  grinning  thing  that  stalks 
Hidden  in  music,  like  a queen 
That  in  a garden  of  glory  walks, 

Till  good  men  love  the  thing  they  loathe. 
Art,  thou  hast  many  infamies, 

But  not  an  infamy  like  this. 

Oh,  snap  the  fife  and  still  the  drum, 

And  show  the  monster  as  she  is? 

Richard  le  Gallienne. 

A HYMN  OF  WAR 

0 God,  how  incoherent,  swift, 

And  hot  with  blood  and  salt  with  tears 
The  supplications  that  we  lift 
This  wildest  of  all  warring  j^ears. 

And  strange  the  Christian  altar  seems — 

So  ghastly,  so  ungarlanded! 

It  rises  pallid  as  our  dreams 

Of  the  unknown,  unburied  dead. 

No  table  built  of  wood  or  stones 
On  which  the  muted  lamb  was  tied; 

Upon  this  ark  of  human  bones 
The  Lamb  of  God  is  crucified. 


22 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


The  bursting  bomb,  the  battle  shock, 

The  ravished  hearts  that  slowly  bleed, 
The  countless  broken  bodies  mock 
Thy  body,  broken  for  our  need. 

Thou  art  the  Captain  of  the  host, 

On  Thee  we  call  to  kill  and  maim; 

On  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Ghost 
To  light  and  lead  the  fearful  flame. 

We  visit  on  the  innocent 

Thy  wrath,  in  which  no  man  can  live. 
Lord,  must  Thy  pity  be  forspent? 

O Prince  of  Peace,  forgive,  forgive! 

Ada  Foster  Murray. 

THE  GODS  OF  WAR 


London  critics  pronounce  this  poem  by  George  Russell,  the  noted  Irish  poet, 
to  be  the  finest  on  the  war  yet  produced  in  Great  Britain.  It  is  reprinted  from 
the  “London  Times.” 

Fate  wafts  us  from  the  pygmies’  shore! 

We  swim  beneath  the  epic  skies; 

A Rome  and  Carthage  war  once  more, 

And  wider  empires  are  the  prize; 

Where  the  beaked  galleys  clashed,  lo,  these 
Our  iron  dragons  of  the  seas! 

High  o’er  the  mountains’  dizzy  steep 
The  winged  chariots  take  their  flight. 

The  steely  creatures  of  the  deep 
Cleave  the  dark  waters’  ancient  night. 
Below,  above,  in  wave,  in  air 
New  worlds  for  conquest  everywhere. 

More  terrible  than  spear  or  sword 
Those  stars  that  burst  with  fiery  breath; 
More  loud  the  battle  cries  are  poured 
Along  a hundred  leagues  of  death 
So  do  they  fight.  How  have  ye  warred, 
Defeated  armies  of  the  Lord? 

This  is  the  Dark  Immortal’s  hour; 

His  victory,  whoever  fail; 

His  profits  have  not  lost  their  power; 

Caesar  and  Attila  prevail. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


23 


These  are  your  legions  still,  proud  ghosts, 
These  myriads  embattled  hosts. 

How  wanes  thine  empire,  Prince  of  Peace. 
With  the  fleet  circling  of  the  suns 
The  ancient  gods  their  power  increase. 

Lo,  how  thine  own  anointed  ones 
Do  pour  upon  their  warring  bands 
The  devil’s  blessings  from  their  hands. 

Who  dreamed  a dream  mid  outcasts  bom 
Could  overthrow  the  pride  of  kings? 

They  pour  on  Christ  the  ancient  scorn. 

His  Dove  its  gold  and  silver  wings 
Has  spread.  Perhaps  it  nests  in  flame 
In  outcasts  who  adjure  His  name. 

Choose  ye  your  rightful  gods,  nor  pay 
Lip  reverence  that  the  heart  denies, 

O nations.  Is  not  Zeus  today, 

The  thunderer  from  the  epic  skies, 

More  than  the  Prince  of  Peace?  Is  Thor 
Not  nobler  for  a world  at  war? 

They  fit  the  dreams  of  power  we  hold, 

Those  gods  whose  names  are  with  us  still. 
Men  in  their  image  made  of  old 
The  high  companions  of  their  will. 

Who  seek  an  airy  empire’s  pride, 

Would  they  pray  to  the  Crucified? 

0 Outcast  Christ,  it  was  too  soon 
For  flags  of  battle  to  be  furled 
While  life  was  yet  at  the  high  noon. 

Come  in  the  twilight  of  the  world; 

Its  kings  may  greet  Thee  without  scorn 
And  crown  Thee  then  without  a thorn. 

WAR. 

Mrs.  E.  A.  Wheeler 

“The  same  shall  drink  of  the  wine  of  the  wrath  of  God,  which  is  poured  out 
without  mixture  into  the  cup  of  His  indignation.” — Holy  Writ. 

Has  hell  itself  “unloosed  the  dogs  of  war,” 

And  sent  them  rampant  o’er  this  mundane  sphere, 
“Appolyon  straddled  quite  across  the  way,” 
Planting  his  cloven  foot  on  land  and  sea? 


24 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Has  our  old  Satan — chained  a thousand  years — 
Escaped,  his  lengthened  sentence  now  expired? 
Arms  he  his  imps  of  darkness  and  despair, 

And  yokes  his  howling  demons  to  his  car. 

To  hasten  forth  to  crush  out  lives  of  men, 

And  gloat  with  fiendish  glee  o’er  widows’  tears, 
And  laugh  at  moaning  little  children’s  pain, 
Mocking  at  broken-hearted  mother’s  fears? 

Back!  back  to  your  infernal  den,  O fiend! 

Call  off  your  bloody,  devilish  dragon  corps! 
Begone!  accursed  of  God!  hide  your  foul  head, 

And  be  an  ally  ’gainst  your  God  no  more! 

Rockland,  Mass. 

Jan.  10,  1915,  in  “Boston  Globe.” 

THE  EUROPEAN  WAR 

By  David  Armitage. 

Written  Sept.  14,  a few  weeks  after  hostilities  began. 

How  strange  it  seems  this  twentieth  century  war! 
Britain  allied  with  France  and  Russian  Czar 
’Gainst  German  hosts  and  those  of  Austria  too — 
War  Lords  gone  mad  ’twould  seem  from  a review. 

This  war  in  Europe  is  most  pregnant  theme 
For  thought  and  speech — excelling  wildest  dream; 
Millions  of  men — the  image  of  their  God, 

In  deadly  strife  for  mastery  of  the  sod! 

Who  is  to  blame  for  the  most  wicked  crime 
That  ever  stained  the  annals  of  our  time? 

Who  gave  the  word  that  sped  the  armies  on 
O’er  Belgium  soil — its  neutral  zone  undone? 

The  Kaiser  did!  He  yet  may  rue  the  day 
His  ultimatum  first  came  into  play. 

His  game  of  war — have  England  neutral  be— 
Then  “On  to  Paris,”  as  in  eighteen  seventy! 

Most  fateful  step  the  Kaiser  took  just  then 
To  march  through  Belgium  with  his  million  men. 
“A  scrap  of  paper”  was  the  Belgium  Treaty: 

To  ignore  it  he  felt  to  be  his  duty. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


25 


A cruel  fate  is  that  of  Belgium! 

She  made  brave  fight,  but  suffered  martyrdom 
Her  efforts  vain!  Towns  laid  waste,  her  people 
slain! 

Though  her  struggles  thwarted  Germans  in  the 
main. 

France  sprang  to  arms  and  French  and  British 
troops 

Have  kept  from  Paris  German  armies  with  their 
swoops. 

The  end  is  not — Germans  must  weaker  go 
While  Allies  both  in  strength  and  numbers  grow! 

Freedom  for  all,  be  nations  large  or  small, 

Is  now  at  stake.  Titanic  hosts  appall 
With  shot  and  shell,  by  mine  and  submarine 
Death  stalks  abroad.  Flay  God’s  power  intervene! 

We  love  not  war  and  war  must  be  restrained. 
Nations,  like  men,  must  by  the  courts  be  chained. 
Tennyson’s  dream  that  “battle  flags  be  furled” 
May  yet  come  true  to  “federate  the  world.” 

Bridled  must  be  the  war  lords  of  to-day; 

The  world  be  freed  from  military  sway! 

The  Prince  of  Peace  will  not  forsake  His  own; 
Right  must  succeed,  tyrants  be  overthrown! 

This  favored  land  should  long  remain  at  peace 
With  war  abroad  trade  here  should  have  increase! 
Work  for  all  good- — co-operate  to  that  end, 

Thus  bless  all  people  and  become  their  friend. 

WAR 

I.  C.,  in  “London  Morning  Post.” 

From  hill  to  hill  he  harried  me, 

He  stalked  me  day  and  night; 

He  neither  knew  nor  hated  me; 

Nor  his  nor  mine  the  fight. 

He  killed  the  man  who  stood  by  me, 

For  such  they  made  his  law; 

Then,  foot  by  foot,  I fought  to  him, 

Who  neither  knew  nor  saw. 


26 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


I trained  my  rifle  on  his  heart; 

He  leapt  into  the  air, 

My  screaming  ball  tore  through  his  breast 
And  lay  embedded  there. 

It  lay  embedded  there,  and  yet, 

Hissed  home  o’er  hill  and  sea 
Straight  through  the  aching  heart  of  her 
Who  ne’er  did  harm  to  me. 

— Arthur  Stringer 

EDWARD  GREY’S  ANSWER 


“ . . .it  would  be  a disgrace  for  us  to  make  this  bargain  with  Germany 

at  the  expense  of  France,  a disgrace  from  which  the  good  name  of  this  country 

would  never  recover." — Sir  Edward  Grey  to  Sir  E.  Goschen. 

When  Honor  on  her  silver  bugle  blows  a point  of  war, 
Then  Englishmen  arise, 

With  battle  in  their  eyes, 

They  can  only  give  one  answer,  as  their  fathers 
answered,  for 

The  choice  that  they  are  making 
Is  fighting  or  forsaking, 

And  a false,  fair-weather  friendship  is  a lie  that  they 
abhor. 

O’er  the  narrow  seas  the  Gallic  cock  was  crowing  shrill 
alarms. 

He  saw  them  coming  forth, 

The  War  Lords  of  the  North, 

He  said — “My  little  soldiers,  it  is  time  to  fall  to  arms; 

But  our  coasts  are  lying  bare, 

Will  England  do  her  share? 

A friendship  that  is  fickle  is  the  worst  of  Fortune’s 
harms. 

“Through  Luxemburg  and  Belgium  they  are  marching 
in  their  might, 

They  trample  on  the  weak, 

Our  overthrow  to  seek; 

They  tear  up  every  treaty,  and  they  laugh  at  every 
right; 

Will  England  see  her  name 
Put  thus  to  open  shame? 

Will  she  see  her  Royal  pledges  torn  in  pieces  in'  her 
sight?” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


27 


But  the  Germans  in  their  arrogance  our  Minister  ad- 
dressed, 

Half-wheedling,  half-commanding — 
“Let  us  make  an  understanding, 

Her  coasts  we  will  not  batter  nor  her  ports  will  we  in- 
vest; 

If  you  will  stand  apart 
While  we  pierce  her  to  the  heart, 

We  will  let  you  show  your  friendship  by  a bargain  for 
the  rest.  ” 

Then  Sir  Edward  Grey  replied,  to  the  honor  of  his 
race — 

“To  what  England  puts  her  hand, 
Upon  that  she  takes  her  stand. 

She  will  not  barter  treaties  in  your  German  market- 
place, 

Nor  will  she  condescend 
To  pledge  away  a friend, 

Such  contracting  out  of  danger  were  for  ever  her  dis- 
grace.” 

So  o’er  the  perilous  seas  to  Death  or  Victory  we  go, 
Our  sailors  rushing  forth, 

To  give  battle  in  the  North; 

There  as  it  was  aforetime  our  ships  will  meet  the  foe; 

And  our  brave  soldiers  too — 
Trafalgar,  Waterloo! 

As  then  so  now,  twice  armed  are  we  since  Honor  backs 
the  blow! 


THE  MOTIVES. 

“Against  England  we  fight  for  booty;  against  our  Continental  enemies  for 
victory.” — Dr.  Solf,  German  Colonial  Secretary. 

We  went  to  war  with  Russia— 

’Twas  nothing  but  our  fun, 

And  she’ll  be  lightly  treated  when 
The  victory  is  won. 

We  only  want  to  show  her 
What  wonders  we  can  do, 

When  once  our  Army  gets  to  work, 

By  way  of  “hacking  through.” 

We  had  to  harry  Belgium, 

Although  it  pierced  our  heart, 


28 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Because  we  wished  to  win  from  France 
Advantage  at  the  start; 

But  let  no  one  imagine 
There’s  reason  for  alarm, 

For,  spite  of  all  our  “ frightfulness,  ” 

We  wish  such  foes  no  harm. 

But  when  it  comes  to  England, 

It’s  quite  another  thing; 

From  her  a cry  for  mercy  yet 
Our  mighty  fist  will  swing; 

Nor  will  that  be  sufficient 
To  sate  our  martial  zeal — 

Our  noble  hearts  are  set  upon 
The  booty  we  shall  steal. 

A.  W.  B.  in  the  London  “Daily  Chronicle.” 


THE  DAY 

(The  author  of  this  poem  is  Henry  Chappell,  a railway  porter  at  Bath, 
England.  Mr.  Chappell  is  known  to  his  comrades  as  the  ‘Bath  Railway 
Poet.  ” A poem  such  as  this  lifts  him  to  the  rank  of  a national  poet.]  Reprint- 
ed from  the  “London  Daily  Express.’* 

You  boasted  the  Day,  and  you  toasted  the  Day, 
And  now  the  Day  has  come, 

Blasphemer,  braggart  and  coward  all, 

Little  you  reck  of  the  numbing  ball, 

The  blasting  shell,  or  the  “white  arm’s”  fall, 

As  they  speed  poor  humans  home. 

You  spied  for  the  Day,  you  lied  for  the  Day, 

And  woke  the  Day’s  red  spleen. 

Monster,  who  asked  God’s  aid  Divine, 

Then  strewed  His  seas  with  the  ghastly  mine; 
Not  all  the  waters  of  all  the  Rhine 
Can  wash  thy  foul  hands  clean. 

You  dreamed  for  the  Day,  you  schemed  for  the 
Day; 

Watch  how  the  Day  will  go. 

Slayer  of  age  and  youth  and  prime 
(Defenceless  slain  for  never  a crime) 

Thou  art  steeped  in  blood  as  a hog  in  slime, 

False  friend  and  cowardly  foe. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


29 


You  have  sown  for  the  Day,  you  have  grown  for 
the  Day ; 

Yours  is  the  Harvest  red. 

Can  you  hear  the  groans  and  the  awful  cries? 

Can  you  see  the  heap  of  slain  that  lies, 

And  sightless  turned  to  the  flame-split  skies 
The  glassy  eyes  of  the  dead? 

You  have  wronged  for  the  Day,  you  have  longed 
for  the  Day 
That  lit  the  awful  flame. 

’Tis  nothing  to  you  that  hill  and  plain 
Yield  sheaves  of  dead  men  amid  the  grain; 

That  widows  mourn  for  their  loved  ones  slain, 
And  mothers  curse  thy  name. 

But  after  the  Day  there’s  a price  to  pay 
For  the  sleepers  under  the  sod, 

And  Him  you  have  mocked  for  many  a day — 
Listen,  and  hear  what  He  has  to  say: 

“Vengeance  is  mine,  1 will  repay.” 

What  can  you  say  to  God? 

A CHANT  OF  HATE  AGAINST  ENGLAND. 

By  Ernst  Lissauer  in  “Jugend.” 

An  illustration  of  the  intense  animosity  against  England  prevailing  in  Ger- 
many. Rendered  into  English  verse  by  Barbara  Henderson. 

French  and  Russian,  they  matter  not, 

A blow  for  a blow  and  a shot  for  a shot; 

We  love  them  not,  we  hate  them  not. 

We  hold  the  Weichsel  and  Vosges-gate, 

We  have  but  one  and  only  hate, 

We  love  as  one,  we  hate  as  one, 

We  have  one  foe  and  one  alone. 

Fie  is  known  to  you  all,  he  is  known  to  you  all, 

He  crouches  behind  the  dark  gray  flood, 

Full  of  envy,  of  rage,  of  craft,  of  gall, 

Cut  off  by  waves  that  are  thicker  than  blood. 

Come,  let  us  stand  at  the  Judgment  place, 

An  oath  to  sweat  to,  face  to  face, 

An  oath  of  bronze  no  wind  can  shake, 

An  oath  for  our  sons  and  their  sons  to  take. 

Come,  hear  the  word,  repeat  the  word, 


30 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Throughout  the  Fatherland  make  it  heard. 

We  will  never  forego  our  hate, 

We  have  all  but  a single  hate, 

We  love  as  one,  we  hate  as  one, 

We  have  one  foe  and  one  alone — 

ENGLAND! 

In  the  Captain’s  Mess,  in  the  banquet  hall, 

Sat  feasting  the  officers,  one  and  all, 

Like  a sabre-blow,  like  the  swing  of  a sail, 

One  seized  his  glass  held  high  to  hail; 
Sharp-snapped  like  the  stroke  of  a rudder’s  play, 
Spoke  three  words  only:  “To  the  Day!” 

Whose  glass  this  fate? 

They  had  all  but  a single  hate. 

Who  was  thus  known? 

They  had  one  foe  and  one  alone— 

ENGLAND! 

Take  you  the  folk  of  the  Earth  in  pay, 

With  bars  of  gold  your  ramparts  lay, 

Bedeck  the  ocean  with  bow  on  bow, 

Ye  reckon  well,  but  not  well  enough  now. 

French  and  Russian  they  matter  not, 

A blow  for  a blow,  a shot  for  a shot, 

We  fight  the  battle  with  bronze  and  steel, 

And  the  time  that  is  coming  Peace  will  seal. 

You  will  we  hate  with  a lasting  hate, 

We  will  never  forego  our  hate, 

Hate  by  water  and  hate  by  land, 

Hate  of  the  head  and  hate  of  the  hand, 

Hate  of  the  hammer  and  hate  of  the  crown. 

Hate  of  seventy  millions,  choking  down. 

We  love  as  one,  we  hate  as  one, 

We  have  one  foe  and  one  alone — 

ENGLAND! 

— New  York  “Times.” 

A REPLY. 

(In  reply  to  the  above,  and  on  the  day  of  its  publication,  the  New  York 
“Times”  received  the  following  from  Beatrice  M.  Barrt:) 

French  and  Russian,  they  matter  not, 

For  England  only  your  wrath  is  hot; 

But  little  Belgium  is  so  small 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


31 


You  never  mentioned  her  at  all — 

Or  did  her  graveyards,  yawning  deep, 

Whisper  that  silence  was  discreet? 

For  Belgium  is  waste!  Ay,  Belgium  is  waste! 

She  welters  in  the  blood  of  her  sons, 

And  the  ruins  that  fill  the  little  place 
Speak  of  the  vengeance  of  the  Huns. 

“Come,  let  us  stand  at  the  Judgment  place,” 

German  and  Belgian,  face  to  face, 

What  can  you  say?  What  can  you  do? 

What  will  history  say  of  you? 

For  even  the  Hun  can  only  say 
That  little  Belgium  lay  in  his  way. 

Is  there  no  reckoning  you  must  pay? 

What  of  the  Justice  of  that  “Day?” 

Belgium  one  voice — Belgium  one  cry 
Shrieking  her  wrongs,  inflicted  by 
GERMANY! 

In  her  ruined  homesteads,  her  trampled  fields, 

You  have  taken  your  toll,  you  have  set  your  seal; 

Her  women  are  homeless,  her  men  are  dead, 

Her  children  pitifully  cry  for  bread; 

Perchance  they  will  drink  with  you — “To  the  Day!” 
Let  each  man  construe  it  as  he  may. 

What  shall  it  be? 

They,  too,  have  but  one  enemy: 

Whose  work  is  this? 

Belgium  has  but  one  word  to  hiss — 

GERMANY! 

Take  you  the  pick  of  your  fighting  men 
Trained  in  all  warlike  arts,  and  then 
Make  of  them  all  a human  wedge 
To  break  and  shatter  your  sacred  pledge; 

You  may  fling  your  treaty  lightly  by, 

But  that  “scrap  of  paper”  will  never  die! 

It  will  go  down  to  posterity, 

It  will  survive  in  eternity, 

Truly  you  hate  with  a lasting  hate; 

Think  you  you  will  escape  that  hate? 

“Hate  by  water  and  hate  by  land; 

Hate  of  the  head  and  hate  of  the  hand.” 

Black  and  bitter  and  bad  as  sin, 


32 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Take  you  care  lest  it  hem  you  in, 

Lest  the  hate  you  boast  of  be  yours  alone, 

And  curses,  like  chickens,  find  roost  at  home 
IN  GERMANY! 

TO  THE  GERMAN  ARMY 

A New  Year’s  Prayer  1915,  by  Earl  Curzon 
of  Kedleston. 

“The  song  of  hate,”  was  received  in  Germany  with  much  favor,  as  it  seemed 
to  express  the  feelings  of  German  people  towards  Great  Britain  and  recently 
the  Kaiser  decorated  the  author. 

Now  Earl  Curzon  of  Kedleston,  formerly  Viceroy  of  India,  in  order  to  visual- 
ize British  opinion  of  Germany,  or  at  least,  his  own  opinion,  has  written  a 
poem  to  the  German  Army,  entitled  “A  New  Prayer,  1915,”  in  which  hatred 
of  Germany  is  spoken  in  forceful  English.  Here  it  is: — 

I pray  that  every  passing  hour 
Your  hearts  may  bruise  and  beat, 

I pray  that  every  step  you  take 
May  scorch  and  sear  your  feet! 

I pray  that  beauty  never  more 
May  charm  your  eyes,  your  ears, 

That  you  may  march,  through  day  and  night, 
Beneath  a heaven  of  tears. 

Blind  to  the  humblest  flowers  that  in 
The  hedgerow  corners  bloom, 

Deaf  to  whatever  sound  or  cry 
May  wake  in  you  the  memory 
Of  dear  ones  left  at  home. 

I pray  your  guns  may  be  engulfed 
Beneath  the  loam — our  loam! 

I pray  the  streams — our  streams — may  leap 
In  floods  above  their  banks  and  sweep 
Your  trampling  hosts  to  doom! 

I pray  the  spectres  of  our  slain 
May  haunt  you  in  your  tents — 

Vigil  or  sleep,  whiche’er  you  seek — 

Naught  smelling  but  the  bloody  reek 
Of  our  Holy  Innocents. 

I pray  the  ruins  of  our  homes 
May  crush  you  like  a worm, 

Your  brains  beneath  the  torment  reel, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


33 


Doubt  from  your  hearts  their  fury  steal, 
Fear  drive  you  like  brute  beasts  that  squeal 
And  fly  before  the  storm! 

I pray  that  you  may  live  to  writhe 
’Neath  every  pang  we’ve  known; 

Then  haply  may  Almighty  God 
Spare  the  supreme  avenging  rod, 

The  eternal  anger  of  His  nod, 

And  say  the  miles  that  you  have  trod 
Shall  of  themselves  atone! 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WORM 

We  gave  them  our  hearts  and  we  gave  them  our  purses: 
They  sent  us  their  scum  who  brought  nothing  but 
curses. 

We  gave  them  our  jobs  when  our  secrets  they’d  learned: 
They  were  fixing  up  bombs  with  the  money  they  earned. 

We  took  them  for  valets  and  waiters,  the  dears! 

They  were  squinting  through  keyholes  and  sweating 
their  ears. 

We  accepted  their  love  in  exchange  for  our  trade: 

And  their  Dreadnoughts  increased  with  the  profits  they 
made. 

We  worshipped  their  music  and  warbled  their  songs: 
They  were  oiling  the  thumbscrews  and  heating  the 
tongs. 

We  feted  and  dined  them  and  showed  them  our  boats: 
They  jumped  at  the  chance  on  their  cuffs  to  make  notes. 

Our  money,  our  trust,  and  our  trade — all,  we  gave  them, 
But  now,  from  our  steel  and  our  bullets,  Hell  save  them! 
Aubrey  Ford,  in  London  “Opinion.” 


34 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


HOW  LIEGE  HELD  THE  ROAD 


From  Herbert  Kaufman’s  volume  of  poems  entitled  “ The  Song  of  the  Guna.” 

We  were  pounding  at  the  anvils  when  they  pounded  at 
our  gate ; 

“Open,”  cried  the  German  squadrons;  “let  us  pass, 
or  meet  your  fate! 

We  are  millions;  dare  deny  us  and  Liege  is  but  a name.” 

But  we  chose  to  die  in  honor  than  to  buy  our  lives  in 
shame. 

So  we  banked  our  eager  fires,  and  we  laid  aside  the 
sledge, 

Recking  only  that  our  sires  had  endowed  us  with  the 
pledge 

To  maintain  an  ally’s  honor,  to  uphold  the  Belgian 
code, 

And  we  answered  with  our  cannon,  THAT  LIEGE 
WOULD  HOLD  THE  ROAD! 

We,  who  faced  the  Roman  legions  when  the  Prussian 
was  unborn, 

Met  the  insult  of  the  raider  with  a message  of  steel 
scorn. 

Dared  he  think,  this  upstart  Caesar,  that  the  Belgii 
would  be  cowed, 

Where  the  Roman  Caesar  found  us  standing  fearlessly 
and  proud? 

And  we  did  not  wait  for  England,  and  we  did  not  wait 
for  France, 

But  alone  we  gave  him  battle,  and  alone  blocked  his 
advance ; 

And  the  flag  that  fluttered  boldly  over  town  and 
fortress  showed 

To  the  world  that  God  fought  with  us,  and  LIEGE 

STILL  HELD  THE  ROAD! 


Fifty  times  the  hungry  Uhlan  ate  our  lead  and  asked 
for  more ; 

Fifty  times  the  Belgian  dragoons  charged  and  cut 
them  to  the  core; 

And  they  perished  by  the  thousand,  but  an  ever- 
swelling  flood 

Day  by  day  poured  through  the  border,  sworn  to 
drench  Liege  in  blood. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


35 


And  our  wives  looked  at  their  children,  but  our  women 
did  not  quail! 

“Serve  the  fatherland.  ’Twere  better  that  we  perish 
than  you  fail. 

Rather  than  to  breed  to  cowards,  we  will  bear  the 
widow’s  load; 

For  the  glory  of  our  children,  fight — LIEGE  MUST 
HOLD  THE  ROAD!” 

When  the  last  sword  is  a ploughshare,  and  the  last 
war-trampled  plain 

Has  been  furrowed,  and  its  scars  are  hid  beneath  a 
rug  of  grain ; 

When  the  nations’  hates  are  sated,  and  the  ancient 
feuds  have  died; 

When  the  Mongol  lust  is  vanished,  and  the  last  gun 
laid  aside; 

When  the  last  despot’s  ambition  is  a memory  of  the 
grave; 

When  we  know  not  Czar,  nor  Emperor,  nor  King,  or 
serf,  nor  slave; 

Men  will  tell  the  deathless  story  of  the  Belgians’ 
splendid  code, 

When  for  God,  and  King,  and  glory,  AT  LEIGE  WE 
HELD  THE  ROAD. 


BELGIUM  HELD  THE  WAY  TO  THE 
BATTLEFIELD. 

By  Rev.  Henry  E.  Lovelady,  Vicar  of  Oldham,  Eng. 

“Few  were  they,  and  the  foe  was  strong, 

Cruel  and  stern  as  fate; 

He  bade  them  bow  to  the  rule  of  wrong, 

And  sell  him  the  guarded  gate. 

Never  a man  of  them  chose  to  yield 
To  the  challenge  of  ruthless  might; 

They  held  the  way  to  the  battlefield 
Till  their  friends  had  gathered  to  fight. 


36 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


They  gave  their  lands  for  the  Huns  to  tread, 
Their  homes  for  the  Huns  to  burn; 

For  our  very  lives  they  gave  their  dead, 

And  what  shall  we  give  in  turn? 

For  the  blood  they  shed  we  give  our  own, 

Our  wealth  for  the  debt  we  owe, 

Till  we  smite  the  tyrant  off  his  throne, 

And  lay  the  oppressor  low. 

They  have  spent  themselves  to  save  our  shore, 
They  are  strong  to  suffer  yet; 

And  so  do  God  to  us,  and  more, 

If  we  pay  not  all  our  debt!” 


WHEN  STRUCK  “THE  DAY.” 

From  the  Ms.  by  W.  B.  Scofield. 

Life  says  at  birth,  “Lo!  this  is  mine  to  give 
Receive  this  breath  and  guard  the  gift  I make.” 
And  Death  soon  comes  and  cries  to  all  who  live, 

“ ’Twas  Life’s  to  give,  but  it  is  mine  to  take.” 

How  many  myriad  shapes  old  Life  has  wrought 
To  trick  the  treasure  from  his  rival’s  hands; 

But  patient  Death  still  finds  what  he  has  sought 
And  drives  his  quarry  o’er  Time’s  fatal  sands. 

How  many  cycles  has  the  contest  raged, 

How  many  creatures  back  to  earth  have  gone; 

For  whom  and  what  is  the  wide  battle  waged 
O’er  all  who  have  been  or  shall  yet  be  born? 

For  countless  years,  in  spite  of  all  his  care, 

Life  has  been  vanquished  in  the  endless  task; 

Each  clod,  breath-quickened,  caught  in  Death’s  dark 
snare 

A clod  has  proved,  behind  each  falling  mask. 

Yet  one  race,  for  a little  while,  seemed  made 
To  challenge  Death  and  hold  him  fast  at  bay 
When  man,  God-gifted,  stept  forth  unafraid 
To  face  his  fate  in  the  broad  light  of  day. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


37 


There  was  no  labor  that  the  human  mind 

Would  not  have  conquered,  as  with  Christ’s  own 
might, 

And  ancient  superstitions  left  behind 

Man  then  had  said,  at  last,  “There  shall  be  light!” 

There  is  no  mystery  of  the  midmost  earth, 

No  maze  of  highest  sky,  or  deepest  sea, 

No  winding  riddle  of  our  death  or  birth 
But  man  had  found  the  talismanic  key. 

When  struck  “the  day”  that  better  had  not  been, 
With  all  mankind  ’neath  Death’s  dark  banner  ranged, 

And  all  the  promise  that  the  world  had  seen, 

In  that  brief  hour,  to  hopelessness  was  changed. 

And  what  the  profit  of  the  godless  day, 

Though  cannon  hurl  its  shell  a hundred  miles? 

The  fate  of  man  hangs  trembling  on  their  play 
When  Life  has  tears  and  Death  has  only  smiles. 

Smash  down  the  forts  and  sink  the  shuddering  ships, 
Fill  reeking  trenches  with  your  squandered  slain, 

Set  Death’s  sad  seal  upon  the  breathless  lips 
Then,  turn  to  Life  and  start  the  race  again. 

Worcester,  Mass.,  Jan.  1st,  1915. 


TO  ARMS 

To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  Britons; 

Hark  to  the  battle  cry; 

It  calls  in  voice  of  thunder, 

Its  echoes  pierce  the  sky. 
Now  is  the  time,  ye  patriots, 

To  show  your  valor  true; 

List  to  the  call  of  Duty, 

It  speaks — it  speaks  to  you. 

To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  Britons; 

Your  country  needs  your  aid 
In  this  her  hour  of  peril, 

’Gainst  hostile  hosts  array’d. 
The  battle  rages  fiercely, 


38 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


And  hotter  grows  the  fight; 
Defend  the  cause  of  Honor, 

Strike  on  the  side  of  Right. 

To  arms!  to  arms!  ye  Britons; 

Whatever  it  may  cost, 

Come  in  your  hundred  thousands 
And  join  the  gallant  host. 

List  to  the  martial  summons 
And  with  one  voice  reply 
“We  come!  we  come!  0,  Britain, 

“To  conquer  or  to  die.” 

R.  J.  W. 


ENGLISHWOMAN’S  OWN  WAR  SONG 

It  was  a woman,  Julia  Ward  Howe,  who  wrote  “ The  Battle  Hymn  of  the 
Republic.”  The  writer  of  the  new  ‘‘Song  of  Liberty,”  a new  tune  sung  by 
the  British  soldiers  at  the  front,  is  also  a woman,  says  T.  P.’s  Weekly.  She  is 
Helen  F.  Bantock,  the  wife  of  the  composer,  Professor  Granville  Bantock. 

Now  is  the  time,  my  brothers, 

To  lift  a battle  song, 

To  shame  the  cowards  in  the  fight, 

The  loiterers  in  the  throng. 

Now  serried  close  our  ranks  must  march, 
High  held  our  hearts  and  free, 

To  fight  the  fight  or  die  the  death 
For  dearest  liberty. 

We  want  no  laggards  in  the  rear, 

No  waverers  along, 

For  the  race  is  to  the  swift 
And  the  battle  to  the  strong. 

We  pray  not  for  a guerdon — 

Of  hardier  stuff  are  we: 

We  fight  the  fight,  we  sing  the  song, 

Of  holy  liberty: 

We  mould  the  thoughts,  we  mould  the  thews 
Of  nations  yet  unborn. 

And  marching  through  the  watches  long, 
We  sing  unto  the  morn: 

What  if  the  great  for  rule,  contend 
Or  kingdoms  come  and  go! 

We  plough  the  furrows  of  the  deep 
The  living  seed  we  sow! 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


39 


The  world  is  waxing  weary 
Of  all  its  weight  of  wrong, 

Too  long  has  freedom  in  its  marts 
Been  bought  and  sold — too  long: 

Down  with  the  Mammon  idols, 

Down  with  greedy  lust  of  land, 

Let  wars  unrighteous  cease, 

Let  freedom  reign  from  strand  to  strand: 
Fear  not  though  temples  fall, 

For  life  unfolds  in  endless  awe, 

And  if  the  soul  of  man  be  love, 

The  soul  of  love  is  law. 

Then  now  is  the  time,  my  brothers, 

To  lift  a battle  song, 

To  shame  the  cowards  in  the  fight, 

The  loiterers  in  the  throng: 

Now  hand  in  hand  our  ranks  must  march, 
High  held  our  hearts  and  free, 

To  fight  the  fight,  to  find  the  light, 

Of  glorious  liberty. 

We  want  no  laggards  in  the  rear, 

No  waverers  along, 

Up,  brothers,  up,  and  sing, 

And  fight  the  battle  of  the  strong. 


A CALL  TO  ARMS 

By  Mary  Symon,  in  “London  Graphic” 

Your  country  needs  you.  Leave  the  plough 
To  rust  in  homeland  sod. 

Give  weakling  hands  your  work  to  do, 

Leave  child  and  wife  to  God. 

“To  arms!  To  arms!”  The  tocsin  peals 
O’er  moor  and  mount  and  glen — 

The  cry  that  thrilled  our  sires  of  old 
Wakes  Britain  once  again. 

Your  country  needs  you.  Hell  is  loose 
Across  yon  strip  of  sea; 

Its  trampling  hordes  are  at  our  gates — 
Once  in,  and  what  are  we? 

The  helots  of  the  Hun  accurst, 


40 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


O man  of  woman  born 
Give  answer  by  your  heaped  dead, 

’Mong  Belgium’s  alien  corn. 

Your  country  needs  you.  Will  you  go? 

To  fight,  perchance  to  die? 

Is  Britain  done?  Her  age-old  might 
A dream  that’s  passed  by? 

Is  freedom  but  a mirage  limned 
In  some  poor  dotard  brain? 

The  answer’s  yours!  The  pageant  waits! 
Out  yonder  sweeps  the  Aisne. 


TO  THE  KAISER1N. 

So  be  thou  hast  a heart 

Within  thy  breast,  not,  like  thy  lord,  a stone — 

A human  heart  to  feel  and  grieve  and  break, 

There,  on  thy  throne, 

Looking  upon  the  blood  and  bitter  shame 
Of  tender  women  fashioned  as  thou  art, 

Hast  thou  no  moan  to  make? 

No  shuddering  cry  of  pity  for  their  sake? 

Or  dost  thou,  too,  heap  mockery  on  the  Name 
Of  the  Great  Martyr?  If  thou  hast  a heart 
Thou  canst  not  gaze  on  Belgium’s  death  and  dearth, 
Rapine  and  ruin,  that  it  doth  not  bleed. 
Wherefore,  methinks,  thou  art  to-day  indeed 
Most  wretched  of  all  women  on  the  earth. 

Teresa  Hooley. 


TO  ARMS 

Hark  ye  the  cannon,  its  gruff  voice  is  sounding 
The  charge  to  the  legions  of  night  to  advance; 
Hark  to  the  tramping  of  hosts  that  are  hounding 
Peace  from  her  citadels:  Now  is  your  chance. 

Leave  ye  the  plough,  leave  the  pen  in  the  inkstand, 
Speed  from  the  field  wherein  Sport  has  its  sway. 
The  despots  of  darkness  are  threatening  our  home- 
land, 

Fill  up  the  ranks  of  the  Right  while  ye  may. 

Close  down  the  concert,  the  doors  throw  asunder: 
Now  where  the  stage  is  a continent  large 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


41 


The  music  of  bugle  preludes  the  thunder 

Of  horses  and  men  as  they  sweep  to  the  charge. 

Join  ye  the  ranks  of  the  army  defending 

God’s  land  for  God’s  message  of  peace  on  the 
earth. 

Done  with  the  cant  of  this  foreign  pretending, 
Fight  for  the  Truth — and  for  all  ye  are  worth! 

The  path  of  the  Prussian  is  strewn  with  his  pillage, 
All  of  God’s  laws  has  the  tyrant  abused. 

He  has  shot  down  the  aged,  and  burned  out  the 
village 

And  women’s  sweet  bodies  lie  violate  and 
bruised. 

Women,  be  brave,  kiss  your  men  and  God-speed 
them, 

Bid  them  to  go  and  to  give  of  their  best. 

The  parting  is  hard  but  for  your  sake  we  need  them. 
They  strike  for  your  home — and  the  babe  at  your 
breast. 

Harold  Wimbtjry. 


FOLLOW  THE  DRUM 

Written  by  F.  V.  St.  Clair. 

The  German  dogs  of  war  are  loose, 

And  all  the  world  is  arm’d, 

But  Mother  England’s  ready, 

And  we  must  not  be  alarm’d, 

For  proud  is  she  to  know  that  we 
When  challenges  are  hurl’d, 

Will  follow  in  our  fathers’  steps 

When  Britain’s  flag’s  unfurled — 

In  all  parts  of  the  world. 

Chorus: 

When  war  has  got  to  come,  we’ll  follow  the 
drum, 

As  we  did  in  the  days  gone  by, 

When  the  sound  of  war  is  in  the  air, 
Ev’ry  son  of  the  Empire  must  be  there. 


42 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


If  foes  want  to  lower  the  flag  let  them  try, 
To  the  Empire  we  will  cling 
For  ev’ry  mother’s  son, 

Will  be  ready  to  carry  a gun, 

With  the  soldiers  of  our  king. 

Old  Mother  England  calmly  reads 
Each  letter  that  arrives, 

And  those  from  overseas  read 
“We  will  gladly  give  our  lives.” 

Tho’  oceans  great  divide  us  from 
Your  little  strip  of  land, 

’Tis  still  our  Mother  Country,  and 
Together  we  will  band 
To  save  the  Motherland. 

A message  came  from  Erin’s  Isle, 

And  this  is  how  it  read — 

In  times  like  these  all  Party  strife 
All  enmity  is  dead. 

When  England  is  in  danger — 

Threatened  by  the  common  foe, 
Irishmen  of  any  creed  will 
Shoulder  guns  and  go- — 

With  you  in  weal  or  woe. 

Today  we  all  stand  back  to  back 
Prepared  to  do  or  die, 

England  expects  that  every  man 
To  do  his  best  will  try. 

“One  for  all  and  all  for  one,” 

Sinking  all  our  fads, 

No  longer  are  we  Socialists, 
Conservatives  or  Rads, 

But  all  true  British  lads. 


BRITANNIA’S  CHILDREN 

Come  the  three  corners  of  the  world  in  arms, 

And  we  shall  shock  them:  nought  shall  makejis  rue, 
If  Britain  to  itself  do  rest  but  true. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


43 


BUNDLE  AND  GO 

(An  old  bagpipe  war  tune.) 


Bundle  and  go,  0,  bundle  and  go- — 

Your  back  to  the  Highlands,  your  face  to  the  foe; 
A kiss  and  a tear,  and  the  pipes  blowing  clear — 
Bundle  and  go,  0,  bundle  and  go. 

Hark!  to  the  pipes  rousing  the  glen 
Down  by  the  ford  and  round  by  the  ben; 

Our  country  is  calling,  so  gather  the  men — 
Bundle  and  go,  0,  bundle  and  go. 

War — is  it  war?  Then  war  let  it  be — 

None  of  our  seeking,  but  ready  are  we; 

We’ll  over  the  hills  and  over  the  sea — 

Bundle  and  go,  0,  bundle  and  go. 

Germans  are  surging  through  France  like  the  tide, 
Belgians  are  fighting  for  freedom  wi’  pride; 

We’ll  into  the  fray  wi’  the  French  by  our  side — 
Bundle  and  go,  O,  bundle  and  go. 

See  all  the  lads  in  battle  array. 

The  glint  o’  the  tartan  is  heartsome  to-day. 

Who  would  be  here  when  the  lads  are  away? 
Bundle  and  go,  O,  bundle  and  go. 

Good-bye  to  the  glen,  the  hearts  o’  us  greet; 
Good-bye  to  the  clachan,  so  homely,  so  sweet, 

Its  silence  and  peace,  and  the  scent  o’  the  peat — 
Bundle  and  go,  O,  bundle  and  go. 

Bonnie  the  hills  wi’  the  heather  a-bloom; 
Bonnie  the  girl  whose  heart  has  the  gloom, 

Wi’  lips  like  the  rowan  and  hair  like  the  broom — 
Bundle  and  go,  0,  bundle  and  go. 

Bundle  and  go,  0,  bundle  and  go — 

Your  back  to  the  Highlands,  your  face  to  the  foe; 
A kiss  and  a tear,  and  the  pipes  blowing  clear — 
Bundle  and  go,  O,  bundle  and  go. 

D.  A.  M. 


44 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


DADA’S  DON  TO  DA  FYUNT 

“Dada’s  don  acyoss  da  sea 
Among  styange  people,”  Mama  says; 

I don’t  know  why  ’e  din’t  take  me; 

’E  always  does  on  udder  days. 

Dey  tell  me  ’e  is  “at  da  fyunt, ” 

(Da  fyunt  of  wot  I tan’t  make  out) ; 

“And  ’e  will  ’ave  to  stand  da  byunt;” 

I don’t  know  wot  it’s  all  about. 

When  Dada  went  ’e  looked  so  fine, 

Among  a lot  of  soldier  men; 

’E  told  Mama  ’e’d  “drop  a line,” 

My  Mama  laughed  and  kyed,  and  den 

Da  mouf-organs  bedan  to  pyay, 

And  baby  laughed  an’  kyapped  ’is  ’ands, 

And  den  dey  sang  “ ’Tis  yong,  yong  way,” 
An’  shouted,  “Now  for  Derman  bands.” 

My  Dada’s  don  away  to  fight, 

An’  yet  ’e  doesn’t  yike  a yow; 

I tought  dat  fightin’  wasn’t  yight, 

So  why  is  Dada  fightin’  now? 

Now  when  my  Dada  said  “Dood-bye” 

’E  told  Mama  ’e’d  not  be  long 
If  she  would  pyomise  not  to  kye, 

But  Dada’s  been  a yong  time  gone. 

An’  now  we  pyay  each  night  dat  ’e 
Might  soon  turn  back  wiv  medals  on; 

For  such  a darlin’  Dad  is  ’e, 

Dat  we  tan’t  spare  ’im  very  long. 

London  Chronicle. 


RALLY  TO  THE  STANDARD 

Rally  to  the  Standard, 
Rally  to  our  King; 

Our  battle  is  for  truth  and  right, 
And  all  that  they  can  bring. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


45 


Then  rally,  boys,  rally. 

Our  sires  won  fame  upon  the  seas, 

And  glory  on  the  field; 

And  never  shall  Old  Britain’s  sons 
Lay  down  their  arms  and  yield. 

Then  rally,  etc. 

Our  swords  shall  aye  defend  the  weak, 
Maintain  a righteous  law, 

And  make  her  foes  to  feel  the  weight 
Of  Britain’s  lion  paw. 

Then  rally,  etc. 

The  Seaforths,  Gordons,  old  Black  Watch, 
The  Greys,  the  boys  in  Blue, 

Are  heroes  still  on  land  and  sea, 

And  loudly  call  for  you, 

To  rally  to  the  Standard, 

Rally  to  our  King; 

Our  battle  is  for  truth  and  right, 

And  all  that  they  can  bring. 

Then  rally,  boys,  rally. 

Robert  Mackay. 


FALL  IN! 

What  will  you  lack,  sonny,  what  will  you  lack 
When  the  girls  line  up  the  street, 

Shouting  their  love  to  the  lads  come  back 
From  the  foe  they  rushed  to  beat? 

Will  you  send  a strangled  cheer  to  the  sky 
And  grin  till  your  cheeks  are  red? 

But  what  will  you  lack  when  your  mate  goes  by 
With  a girl  who  cuts  you  dead? 

Where  will  you  look,  sonny,  where  will  you  look 
When  your  children  yet  to  be 

Clamor  to  learn  of  the  part  you  took 
In  the  War  that  kept  men  free? 

Will  you  say  it  was  naught  to  you  if  France 
Stood  up  to  her  foe  or  bunked? 

But  where  will  you  look  when  they  give  the  glance 
That  tells  you  they  know  you  funked? 


46 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


How  will  you  fare,  sonny,  how  will  you  fare 
In  the  far-off  winter  night, 

When  you  sit  by  the  fire  in  an  old  man’s  chair 
And  your  neighbors  talk  of  the  fight? 

Will  you  slink  away,  as  it  were  from  a blow, 

Your  old  head  shamed  and  bent? 

Or  say — “I  was  not  the  first  to  go, 

But  I went,  thank  God,  I went”? 

Why  do  they  call,  sonny,  why  do  they  call 
For  men  who  are  brave  and  strong? 

Is  it  naught  to  you  if  your  country  fall, 

And  Right  is  smashed  by  Wrong? 

Is  it  football  still  and  the  picture  show, 

The  pub  and  the  betting  odds, 

When  your  brothers  stand  to  the  tyrant’s  blow 
And  Britain’s  call  is  God’s? 

Cassell’s  “Saturday  Journal.” 


THE  YOKE  OF  ENGLAND. 

From  the  Ms.  by  Ralph  A.  Stewart. 

The  English  colonists  have  long  been  waiting  this  opportunity  to  shake  off 
the  yoke  of  the  mother  country. — German  News  Item. 

Across  the  seas  the  answer  comes, 

As  it  has  come  before, 

From  Hull  to  Pentland  Firth  it  peals 
And  drowns  the  cannon’s  roar. 

Let  those  who  will,  attempt  to  stay 
The  wrath  of  fire  and  flood, 

But  never  hope  to  still  the  call 
That  stirs  the  English  blood! 

They  come  from  Melbourne  and  the  Cape, 
Brisbane  and  Montreal, 

To  march  with  those  of  kindred  faith 
From  Auckland  and  Bengal, 

Australians,  Ghurkas,  Islanders, 

Battalions,  Army  Corps, 

With  every  tide  their  transports  make 
For  England’s  troubled  shores. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


47 


Pretoria,  Sydney,  Halifax, 

Grown  steadfast  with  the  years, 

Send  forth  their  sons  to  fight  and  die 
Beside  the  Fusiliers. 

The  songs  that  fall  on  alien  ears 
In  Alsace  and  Lorraine 
Tell  of  the  snows  of  Ottawa, 

The  hills  of  Bloemfontein. 

They  never  saw  the  Sussex  Downs, 

Nor  felt  the  Channel  spray, 

But  England,  in  her  hour  of  need, 

Has  called  and  they  obey. 

“Shake  off  the  yoke!”  Fools  that  you  were, 
The  yoke  that  holds  them  fast 
Is  hallowed  by  an  empire’s  blood, 

The  glory  of  its  past. 

Brookline,  September  22,  1914. 


THE  HODDEN  GREY. 

Way,  way  for  the  Hodden  Grey, 

For  the  fiery  cross  burns  red, 

Thro’  London  town  borne  up  and  down, 

The  ancient  spell  has  sped. 

O’er  hill  and  dale  each  warlike  Gael 
Is  called  to  meet  the  foe, 

And  spirit  feet  on  the  London  street, 

March  with  us  as  we  go. 

Way,  way  for  the  Hodden  Grey, 

For  the  lads  from  o’er  the  Forth, 

From  Tweed  and  Tay  and  the  Silvery  Spey, 
The  shieling  in  the  North. 

Some  ne’er  have  seen  the  heather  green 
On  hill  or  Highland  ben, 

But  the  spirit’s  there  to  do  or  dare, 

That  led  our  Highland  men. 

Way,  way  for  the  Hodden  Grey, 

For  we  fear  no  foreign  foe. 

Our  grandsires  bold  as  in  days  of  old 
March  with  us  as  we  go. 


48 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


For  Scotland’s  might,  for  Britain’s  right, 

We  march  to  win  the  day, 

And  the  foe  shall  shout,  mid  battle  rout, 
“Way  for  the  Hodden  Grey!” 

Wilfred  Lorraine  Anckorr  in  the  London  “Times.’” 


BRITISH  MARCHING  SONG. 

From  the  London  “Times” 

Air:  “Keel  Row.” 

He  tore  the  scrap  of  paper, 
The  Belgian  scrap  of  paper, 

He  tore  the  scrap  of  paper, 

And  bade  the  bullets  fly. 
chorus: 

So  now  we’re  off  to  Berlin, 

To  Berlin,  to  Berlin, 

So  now  we’re  off  to  Berlin, 

To  ask  the  reason  why. 

He  shot  the  wives  and  children, 
The  wives  and  little  children, 

He  shot  the  wives  and  children, 
And  laughed  to  see  them  die. 

He  sacked  the  shrines  of  Louvain, 
Of  Genlis,  Rheims  and  Louvain, 
He  sacked  the  shrines  of  Louvain, 
They  flamed  against  the  sky. 

He  swore  his  heart  was  bleeding, 
His  tender  heart  was  bleeding, 

He  swore  his  heart  was  bleeding, 
And  winked  his  wicked  eye. 

He  tried  the  road  to  Paris, 

The  blood  stained  road  to  Paris, 
He  tried  the  road  to  Paris, 

It  only  was  a try. 

He  talked  of  German  culture, 

Of  blood  and  iron  and  culture, 

He  talked  of  German  culture, 

And  every  word  a lie. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


49 


THE  “BLACK  SQUAD”  IN  KHAKI 

Put  off  the  oily  dongaree, 

Don’t  ask  the  reason  why; 

Britain’s  manhood  all  should  be 
Wearing  the  King’s  khaki. 

Let  loco’s  all  go  off  the  “beat,” 

Showering  her  spark  so  high; 

Though  all  the  brasses  run  and  heat, 

We’ll  don  the  King’s  khaki. 

Though  shafts  do  break  and  boilers  burst, 
Or  tanks  leak  till  they’re  dry, 

We  know  to  take  the  first  things  first 
And  be  lads  in  khaki. 

No  more  of  turning  at  our  lathe. 

No  more  of  “stock  and  die,” 

Till  we  have  gone  youth’s  only  path, 

And  swelled  the  ranks  khaki. 

No  more  the  rivets  we’ll  knock  down, 
Making  the  metal  fly, 

Till  we  have  served  our  King  and  crown 
And  worn  with  pride  khaki. 

So,  every  worthy  engineer, 

Let  hammers  dormant  lie; 

Show  to  the  world  you  have  no  fear, 

And  don  the  King’s  khaki. 

Off  goes  the  oily  dongaree, 

To  work  we’ve  said  “good-bye,” 

We  soon  will  let  the  Kaiser  see 
The  “Black  Squad”  in  khaki. 

“Kilmarnock  Standard,”  Dec.  12,  1914, 

RECRUITS 

Nearer  draws  the  foe, 

Near  to  home  and  heart, 

When  our  dearest  go 
Forth  to  take  their  part. 


50 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Youth,  adventure  keen, 

Lightly  bids  adieu; 

Worlds  are  to  be  seen 
Home  birds  never  knew. 

Good  from  ill  may  spring; 

And  the  arduous  year, 

War’s  rough  faceting, 

Set  their  manhood  clear. 

Weariness  will  keep 
Sieging  care  away 

From  their  soldier-sleep: 

But,  by  night,  by  day 

Upward  still  will  come 
Fancies,  fears,  alarms: 

Till  the  welcome  home 
Folds  them  to  our  arms. 

W.  W.  in  “Glasgow  Herald" 


OLD  AGE  APPEALS  TO  YOUTH. 

Oh!  for  the  days  of  my  youth, 

When  Spring  spread  her  flowery  way, 
When  mile  after  mile, 

O’er  field  and  stile, 

I wandered  the  livelong  day. 

Oh!  for  the  days  of  my  youth, 

When  Summer  hours  were  long, 

When  over  the  hills, 

By  murmuring  rills, 

I marched  with  a heart  of  song. 

Oh!  for  the  days  of  my  youth, 

When  my  step  was  firm  and  light, 

I tramped  the  heather 
In  Autumn  weather, 

And  dreamless  slept  at  night. 

Oh!  for  the  days  of  my  youth, 

When  my  grip  was  like  a vise, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


51 


When  winged  with  skate 
And  with  heart  elate 
I flew  o’er  the  gleaming  ice. 

Oh!  for  the  days  of  my  youth 
E’re  thus  by  the  fire  I sit, 

And  varicose  veins 
And  muscles  strain 
Have  rendered  me  unfit. 

Oh!  for  the  days  of  my  youth, 

For  King  I’d  gladly  sign, 

And  proudly  take, 

For  Britain’s  sake, 

A place  in  the  fighting  line. 

Oh ! young  men  of  to-day, 

Will  you  follow  pleasure’s  train 
While  German  shell 
Makes  an  awful  hell 
Of  Allies’  fertile  plain! 

Oh!  young  men  of  to-day, 

Will  you  play  the  coward’s  part 
And  leave  to  others 
Your  wives  and  mothers 
To  guard  with  bleeding  heart? 

Oh!  young  men  of  to-day, 

Are  you  held  by  the  greed  of  gold, 

For  the  blood  of  child 
And  of  maiden  mild 
Have  you  thus  your  honor  sold? 

Oh!  young  men  of  to-day, 

Will  you  see  your  comrades  die . 

Yes,  dying  for  you, 

And  your  children  too, 

While  you  stand  idly  by? 

Oh!  young  men  of  to-day, 

Will  you  help  in  the  sacred  fight, 

And  when  you’re  old, 

And  the  tale  is  told, 

Stand  well  in  your  children’s  sight? 


52 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Oh!  young  men  of  to-day, 

Come,  join  in  the  gallant  band, 

And  fight  for  the  right 
And  the  cause  of  light 
And  our  dear  old  native  land. 

“Kilmarnock  Standard,”  Dec.  12,  1914. 


YOUR  COUNTRY  NEEDS  YOU. 

Don’t  you  hear  the  bugle’s  call ! 

You  must  know  your  country  needs  you, 
You  must  conquer  once  for  all! 

Rouse  to  arms  and  do  your  duty, 

Let  not  others  fill  your  place. 

Sound  the  battle  cry  of  freedom, 

Rouse!  you  have  a foe  to  face! 

Fight  that  foe  till  he  discovers 
He  has  made  a big  mistake, 

If  he  thought  to  conquer  Britain 
When  her  honor  was  at  stake! 

We  are  glad  and  proud  to  know 
That  many  of  our  men  have  gone, 

Gone  to  fight  their  country’s  battles, 
Fight  till  justice  has  been  done! 

You  who  still  hold  back  uncertain 
Whether  to  desist  or  fight, 

Conquer  self,  make  one  brave  effort, 

Do  your  part,  with  all  your  might! 

Think  of  Belgium,  desolate,  wasted, 
Solemn  treaties  roughly  torn, 

Spoken  of  as  scraps  of  paper, 

By  a nation  in  its  scorn! 

Britons,  we  can  keep  a treaty, 

Though  perhaps  ’twill  cost  us  dear, 
Made  to  aid  a weaker  nation, 

Strive  to  keep  it  without  fear! 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


53 


We  can  fight  with  hearts  undaunted, 

For  we  know  our  cause  is  right, 

Fight  till  tyranny  is  ended, 

And  the  right  has  conquered  might! 

When  this  awful  strife  is  over, 

When  the  victory  is  won, 

We  will  welcome  those  returning, 

From  their  duty  bravely  done. 

Inverness.  Flora  Mac  Hattie, 


THE  AULD  “RESERVE.” 

It  was  hervest-time, 

An’  the  craps  were  prime 
Up  at  John  Tamson’s  toun! 

Short-goun  an’  sark 
Were  hard  at  the  wark, 

Nickin’  the  barley  doun. 

Pipe-time  cam’, 

An’  there  was  Tam — 

Tam  wi’  the  scowl  an’  the  scars! 

Tam  had  spent 
Years  in  the  Tent’ 

Dandy,  dashing  Hussars. 

Tam  the  “Reserve” — 

Think  o’  his  nerve! 

Auld  an’  rheumatic  an’  worn, 

Strauchen’d  his  back 

An’  burst  on  the  crack 

Wi’ — “I’m  aff  to  the  wars  the  morn!” 

Led  by  his  “half,” 

The  wirnmen  let  aff 
An  angersome  skirl  o’  scorn; 

It  wauken’d  him  up 
Like  the  crack  o’  a whup 
Or  a tout  on  a trumpet  horn. 

“Wha  said  I wis  auld? 

I’m  hale  an’  I’m  bauld!” 

But  they  lauch’d  his  announcement  to  scorn. 


54 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


“Ye’re  far  better  here 
Than  a crock  at  the  weir; 

Ye’re  better  at  cuttin’  the  corn!” 

He  lap  to  his  feet — 

“Ye  may  lauch,  but  ye’ll  see’t! 

It’s  wimmen’s  wark  backin’  the  corn! 

I’ve  the  richt  to  be  ca’d; 

An’  I’ll  gang  too,  be-gawd! 

An’  I howp  for  the  summons  the  morn!” 

John  Tamson  spak’, 

An’  endit  the  crack — 

“There’s  half  the  field  to  be  shorn; 

I’ll  no’  say  ye’re  auld, 

But  the  truth  maun  be  tauld, 

It’s  lang  sin’  the  day  ye  wis  born!” 

Hugh  Haliburton. 


A BALLADE  OF  OFFICE  BOYS. 

They  came  with  collars  of  wide  expanse 
And  chubby  faces  and  quaint,  round  eyes, 
To  ink  their  fingers  at  every  chance 

And  check  their  elders  with  rude  replies. 

We  saw  them  grow  to  alarming  size. 

What  kids  they  seemed,  not  so  long  ago! 

But  now  they  march  where  the  shrapnel  flies, 
The  Office-Boys  that  we  used  to  know! 

We  smiled  as  schoolboy  exuberance 

Grew  gravely  businesslike,  blandly  wise; 

As  calf-love  dawned  at  a typist’s  glance 
(With  lively,  consequent  tastes  in  ties), 

And  how  could  we  in  the  least  surmise 
That  these  were  men  to  arise  and  go 
On  war’s  grim,  desperate  enterprise, 

The  Office-Boys  that  we  used  to  know? 

To  see  them  stemming  a foe’s  advance, 

Or  wresting  from  him  a cherished  prize, 

Or  manning  a desperate  trench  in  France, 

We’d  once  have  stared  in  amazed  surprise. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


55 


We  used  to  smile  at  them,  none  denies. 

We  thought  they  were  born  for  naught  but  show. 

Ah!  never  more  can  we  patronize 
The  Office-Boys  that  we  used  to  know. 

Envoi. 

Prince,  heed  not  when  the  pessimist  tries 
To  prove  the  power  of  a German  foe; 

Trust  them!  They’ll  send  him  to  Paradise — 

The  Office-Boys  that  we  used  to  know! 

R.  M. 


THE  GAME. 

Come,  leave  the  lure  of  the  football  field 
With  its  fame  so  lightly  won, 

And  take  your  place  in  a greater  game 
Where  worthier  deeds  are  done. 

No  game  is  this  where  thousands  watch 
The  play  of  a chosen  few; 

But  rally  all!  if  you’re  men  at  all, 

There’s  room  in  the  team  for  you. 

You  may  find  your  place  in  the  battle-front, 

If  you’d  play  the  forward  game, 

To  carry  the  trench  and  man  the  guns 
With  dash  and  deadly  aim, 

0,  the  field  is  wide,  and  the  foe  is  strong, 

And  it’s  far  from  wing  to  wing, 

But  we’ll  carry  through,  and  it’s  there  that  you 
May  shoot  for  your  flag  and  King. 

Will  you  play  your  part  in  the  middle  line 
Where  our  airmen  bear  the  brunt, 

Who  break  the  plan  of  the  foe’s  attack, 

And  rally  the  men  in  front? 

A bold  assault,  and  a sure  defence 
In  their  game  they  well  combine; 

And  there’s  honor,  too,  awaiting  you, 

If  you’ll  play  in  the  middle  line. 

And,  last  of  all,  you  may  find  a place 
Perchance  of  less  renown, 

Where  a willing  army  may  save  the  game, 


56 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


If  the  first  defence  break  down. 

So  while  others  serve  in  the  far-off  front, 

Or  out  on  the  deadly  foam, 

Will  you  not  enroll  to  keep  the  goal, 

And  fight  for  your  hearth  and  home? 

Then  leave  for  a while  the  football  field, 

And  the  lure  of  the  flying  ball 
Lest  it  dull  your  ear  to  the  voice  you  hear 
When  your  King  and  your  country  call. 

Come,  join  the  ranks  of  our  hero  sons 
In  the  wider  field  of  fame, 

Where  the  God  of  Right  will  watch  the  fight, 

And  referee  the  game. 

A.  Lockiiead,  in  “The  Times." 


FOR  COUNTRY  AND  FOR  KING. 

Oh!  sons  of  Britain,  rouse  ye! 

Hark  to  the  trumpet  call; 

The  land  that  so  endows  ye 
With  favor  needs  ye  all. 

Go,  as  ye  march,  uniting 
In  one  grand  song  to  sing — 

“We  Britons  glad  go  fighting 
For  country  and  for  King.” 

Strive,  strive  that  so  the  story 
May  add  a splendid  page 
To  Britain’s  book  of  glory, 

Her  people’s  heritage; 

Go,  as  ye  march,  uniting 
In  one  grand  song  to  sing — 

“We  Britons  glad  go  fighting 
For  country  and  for  King.” 

Uphold  your  country’s  honor, 
Maintain  your  nation’s  fame, 

Heap  gorgeous  deeds  upon  her, 

And  vaunt  her  glorious  name, 

Go,  as  ye  march,  uniting 
In  one  grand  song  to  sing — 

“We  Britons  glad  go  fighting 
For  country  and  for  King.” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


57 


For  ye,  remembrance  keeping, 

In  that  isle,  misty  grey, 

The  women,  hushed,  go  weeping, 

And  all  the  people  pray. 

Go,  as  ye  march,  uniting 
In  one  grand  song  to  sing — 

“We  Britons  glad  go  fighting 
For  country  and  for  King.” 

Amid  the  cannon’s  rattle, 

The  deep,  strong  joy  of  strife, 

The  mad,  fierce  rage  of  battle, 

Know  things  more  dear  than  life; 

To  nobler  deeds  inciting 

Still  Britain’s  sons  will  sing — 

“On,  on,  for  honor  fighting, 

For  country  and  for  King.” 

Algiers.  Mary  M.  Chukchod. 


TO  THE  SHIRKER:  A LAST  APPEAL. 

Now  is  your  free  choice,  while  the  chance  is  yours 
To  share  their  glory  who  have  gladly  died 

Shielding  the  honor  of  our  island  shores 
And  that  fair  heritage  of  starry  pride, — 

Now,  ere  another  evening’s  shadow  falls, 

Come,  for  the  trumpet  calls. 

What  if  tomorrow  through  the  land  there  runs 
This  message  for  an  everlasting  stain? — 

“England  expected  each  of  all  her  sons 
To  do  his  duty — but  she  looked  in  vain; 

Now  she  demands,  by  order  sharp  and  swift, 

What  should  have  been  a gift.” 

For  so  it  must  be,  if  her  manhood  fail 

To  stand  by  England  in  her  deadly  need; 

If  still  her  wounds  are  but  an  idle  tale 

The  word  must  issue  which  shall  make  you  heed; 

And  they  who  left  her  passionate  pleas  unheard 
Will  have  to  hear  that  word. 

And,  losing  your  free  choice,  you  also  lose 

Your  right  to  rank,  on  Memory’s  shining  scrolls, 


58 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


With  those,  your  comrades,  who  made  haste  to  choose 
The  willing  service  asked  of  loyal  souls; 

From  all  who  gave  such  tribute  of  the  heart 
Your  name  will  stand  apart. 

I think  you  cannot  know  what  meed  of  shame 
Shall  be  their  certain  portion  who  pursue 
Pleasure  “as  usual”  while  their  country’s  claim 
Is  answered  only  by  the  gallant  few. 

Come,  then,  betimes,  and  on  her  altar  lay 
Your  sacrifice  to-day! 

O.  S.  in  “Punch.” 


THE  CLAN  OF  GAEL. 

Francis  Carlin,  in  New  York  “Times.” 

Hail  to  the  Gael  who  ever  hears 
The  whisper  of  Destiny’s  warning; 

Singing  a song  of  the  future  years 
To  the  music  of  Yesterday’s  morning! 

What  of  the  night  and  what  of  the  day 
And  what  of  the  dubious  morrow? 

Roaming  the  world  he  has  won  his  way 
From  the  heart  of  his  country’s  sorrow. 

Hail  to  the  Gael  whose  only  fear 
Is  the  loss  of  his  soul  hereafter; 

Teaching  the  world  how  to  conquer  here 
To  the  music  of  love  and  laughter! 

What  of  the  fray  and  what  of  the  song 
And  what  of  the  Doubter’s  warning? 

England  is  right — but  England  was  wrong 
In  the  troubles  of  Yesterday  morning. 

Hail  to  the  Gael  whose  Freedom  still 
Is  only  a “scrap  of  paper”; 

Marching  off  from  the  harrowed  hill 
Or  out  from  the  shop  of  the  draper! 

What  of  the  signs  and  what  of  the  foes 
And  what  of  the  coward’s  warning? 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


59 


Leaving  Victory  home,  he  goes 
To  battle  for  Her  in  the  morning. 

Hail  to  the  Gael  of  Ireland 

From  the  ancient  bone  in  the  trenches, 

To  the  mingled  blood  of  the  hilted  hand — 
The  Kitcheners  and  the  Frenches. 

What  of  the  North  and  what  of  its  boast 
And  what  of  its  Orange  warning? 

Ah ! but  what  of  the  Prussian  toast 
To  “the  Day”  that  shall  have  no  morning! 


TO  THE  BRAVE. 

From  the  Ms.  by  Frank  Roe  Batchelder. 

God  save  you,  gallant  British  men, 

Where’er  your  flag  be  flown! 

Across  the  sea  your  fleet  keeps  free 
We  hail  you  as  our  own. 

The  fight  of  all  the  world  you  fight 
In  turret  and  in  trench: 

Belgium  by  you  shall  live  anew 

And  France  shall  still  be  French. 

Behind  your  back  the  savage  slays 

Your  children  and  your  wives, 

But  you  will  show,  face  to  the  foe, 

How  brave  men  give  their  lives 
For  freedom,  honor  and  the  right, 

Their  country  and  their  king: 

Nor  has  our  earth  yet  given  birth 
To  any  nobler  thing. 

Shall  British  freemen  be  enslaved, 

And  English  speech  forgot? 

Speak,  English  guns!  Strike,  British  sons! 

And  prove  that  they  shall  not. 

Woe  to  far  lands  that  shelter  snug 
Behind  you,  safe  from  harm, 

If,  while  you  fight,  some  greater  might 

Strike  down  your  outstretched  arm. 


60 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


It  shall  not  be!  Though  torch  and  lust 
Consume  their  helpless  prey, 
Eternal  Truth  shall  balk  their  ruth 
Who  lust  to  rule  and  slay. 

God  save  you,  gallant  British  men 
Gone  forth  from  hut  and  hall 
In  honor  bright  to  fight  the  fight 
That  yet  shall  save  us  all! 

Worcester,  Mass.,  Jan.  31,  1915. 


TO  BRITANNIA. 

By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

God  save  England,  blessed  by  Fate, 

So  old,  yet  ever  young; 

The  acorn  isle  from  which  the  great 
Imperial  oak  has  sprung! 

And  God  guard  Scotland’s  kindly  soil, 
The  land  of  stream  and  glen, 

The  granite  mother  that  has  bred 
A breed  of  granite  men! 

God  save  Wales,  from  Snowdon’s  vales 
To  Severn’s  silver  strand! 

For  all  the  grace  of  that  old  race 
Still  haunts  the  Celtic  land. 

And,  dear  old  Ireland,  God  save  you, 
And  heal  the  wounds  of  old, 

For  every  grief  you  ever  knew 
May  joy  come  fifty-fold! 

Set  Thy  guard  over  us, 

May  Thy  shield  cover  us, 
Enfold  and  uphold  us, 

On  land  and  on  sea! 

From  the  palm  to  the  pine, 

From  the  snow  to  the  line, 
Brothers  together 
And  children  of  Thee. 


61 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Thy  blessing,  Lord,  on  Canada, 

Young  giant  of  the  West, 

Still  upward  lay  her  broadening  way, 
And  may  her  feet  be  blessed! 

And  Africa  whose  hero  breeds 
Are  blending  into  one, 

Grant  that  she  tread  the  path  which  leads 
To  holy  unison. 

May  God  protect  Australia 
Set  in  her  Southern  Sea! 

Though  far  thou  art,  it  cannot  part 
Thy  brother  folks  from  thee. 

And  you,  the  Land  of  Maori, 

The  island-sisters  fair, 

Ocean  hemmed  and  lake  begemmed, 

God  hold  you  in  his  care! 

Set  Thy  guard  over  us, 

May  Thy  shield  cover  us, 

Enfold  and  uphold  us, 

On  land  and  on  sea! 

From  the  palm  to  the  pine, 

From  the  snow  to  the  line, 
Brothers  together 
And  children  of  Thee. 

God  guard  our  Indian  brothers, 

The  Children  of  the  Sun, 

Guide  us  and  walk  beside  us, 

Until  Thy  will  be  done. 

To  all  be  equal  measure, 

Whate’er  his  blood  or  birth, 

Till  we  shall  build  as  Thou  hast  willed 
O’er  all  Thy  fruitful  Earth. 

May  we  maintain  the  story 
Of  honest,  fearless  right! 

Not  ours,  not  ours  the  Glory 
What  are  we  in  Thy  sight? 


62 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Thy  servants,  and  no  other, 

Thy  servants  may  we  be, 

To  help  our  weaker  brother, 

As  we  crave  for  help  from  Thee! 

Set  Thy  guard  over  us, 

May  Thy  shield  cover  us, 
Enfold  and  uphold  us, 

On  land  and  on  sea! 

From  the  palm  to  the  pine, 
From  the  snow  to  the  line, 
Brothers  together 
And  children  of  Thee. 


CANADA’S  WORD. 

By  Rev.  Charles  W.  Gordon  (Ralph  Connor). 

Taken  from  Princess  Mary’s  Birthday  Book,  all  profits  of  which  go  to  the 
Queen’s  work  for  Women  Fund. 

O Canada!  A voice  calls  through  the  mist  and  spume 
Across  the  wide,  wet  salty  leagues  of  foam 
For  aid.  Whose  voice  thus  penetrates  thy  peace? 
Whose?  Thy  Mother’s,  Canada,  Thy  Mother’s  voice. 

O Canada!  A drum  beats  through  the  night  and  day, 
Unresting,  eager,  strident,  summoning 
To  arms.  Whose  drum  thus  throbs  persistent? 
Whose?  Old  England’s,  Canada,  Old  England’s  drum. 


0 Canada!  A sword  gleams  leaping  swift  to  strike 
At  foes  that  press  and  leap  to  kill  brave  men 
On  guard.  Whose  sword  thus  gleams  fierce  death? 
Whose?  ’Tis  Britain’s,  Canada,  Great  Britain’s  sword. 


O Canada!  A prayer  beats  hard  at  Heaven’s  gate, 
Tearing  the  heart  wide  open  to  God’s  eye, 

For  righteousness.  Whose  prayer  thus  pierces  Heaven? 
Whose?  ’Tis  God’s  prayer,  Canada,  Thy  Kingdom 
come. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


63 


0 Canada!  What  answer  make  to  calling  voice  and 
beating  drum, 

To  sword-gleam  and  to  pleading  prayer  of  God 
For  right?  What  answer  makes  my  soul? 

“Mother,  to  thee!  God,  to  Thy  help!  Quick!  My 
sword!” 


INDIA  TO  ENGLAND. 

O England!  in  thine  hour  of  need, 

When  Faith’s  reward  and  Valor’s  meed 
Is  death  or  Glory; 

When  fate  indites  with  biting  brand, 

Clasped  in  each  warrior’s  stiff’ning  hand, 

A Nation’s  story. 

Though  weak  our  hands,  which  fain  would  clasp 
The  warrior’s  sword  with  warrior’s  grasp, 

On  Victory’s  field; 

Yet,  turn,  O mighty  Mother!  turn 
Unto  the  million  hearts  that  burn 
To  be  thy  shield! 

Thine  equal  justice,  mercy,  grace, 

Have  made  a distant  alien  race 
A part  of  thee! 

’Twas  thine  to  bid  their  souls  rejoice, 

When  first  they  heard  the  living  voice 
Of  Liberty! 

Unmindful  of  their  ancient  name, 

And  lost  to  Honor,  Glory,  Fame, 

And  sunk  in  strife 

Thou  foundst  them,  whom  thy  touch  hath  made 
Men,  and  to  whom  thy  breath  conveyed 
A nobler  life! 

They,  whom  thy  love  hath  guarded  long, 

They,  whom  thy  care  hath  rendered  strong 
In  love  and  faith. 

Their  heart-strings  round  thy  heart  entwine; 

They  are,  they  ever  will  be  thine, 

In  life — in  death! 

— Nizamut  Jung  (High  Court  Judge  in  Hyderabad). 


64 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


“ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND” 

What  have  I done  for  you, 

England,  my  England? 

What  is  there  I would  not  do, 

England,  my  own? 

With  your  glorious  eyes  austere, 

As  the  Lord  were  walking  near, 
Whispering  terrible  things  and  dear 
As  the  song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England- 

Round  the  world  on  your  bugles  blown! 

Where  shall  the  watchful  sun, 

England,  my  England, 

Match  the  master-work  you’ve  done, 
England,  my  own? 

When  shall  we  rejoice  again, 

Such  a breed  of  mighty  men 
As  come  forward,  one  to  ten, 

To  the  song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England- — 

Down  the  years  on  your  bugles  blown? 

Ever  the  faith  endures, 

England,  my  England — 

“Take  and  break  us;  we  are  yours, 
England,  my  own! 

Life  is  good,  and  joy  runs  high 
Between  English  earth  and  sky; 

Death  is  death,  but  we  shall  die 
To  the  song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England — 

To  the  stars  on  your  bugles  blown!” 

They  call  you  proud  and  hard, 

England,  my  England; 

You  with  worlds  to  watch  and  ward, 
England,  my  own! 

You  whose  mailed  hand  keeps  the  keys 
Of  such  teeming  destinies, 

You  could  know  nor  dread  nor  ease 
Were  the  song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England — 

Round  the  pit  on  your  bugles  blown! 


Earl  Kitchener 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


63 


Mother  of  ships  whose  might 
England,  my  England, 

Is  the  fierce  old  sea’s  delight, 

England,  my  own; 

Chosen  daughter  of  the  Lord, 

Spouse-in-chief  of  the  ancient  Sword, 

There’s  the  menace  of  the  Word 
In  the  song  of  your  bugles  blown, 

England — 

Out  of  heaven  on  your  bugles  blown! 

— William  Ernest  Henley,  1849-1903 


AN  APPROPRIATE  VERSE. 


Just  before  the  war  besjan.  a dear  old  admiral  presented  me  with  a little  book 
for  daily  use.  I could  not  help  noticing  how  very  appropriate  were  the  lines 
for  to-day  (Saturday),  and  perhaps  by  publication  in  your  valuable  paper  they 
may  inspire  many  a new  recruit  for  Lord  Kitchener’s  Armies.  I append  the 
verses  to  my  letter.  S.  E.  H. 


TO=DAY. 

Rise!  for  the  day  is  passing, 

And  you  lie  dreaming  on; 

The  others  have  buckled  their  armor, 
And  forth  to  the  fight  have  gone; 

A place  in  the  ranks  awaits  you, 

Each  man  has  some  part  to  play; 
The  Past  and  the  Future  are  nothing 
In  the  face  of  the  stern  To-day. 

Rise  from  your  dreams  of  the  future, 
Of  gaining  some  hard-fought  field, 

Of  storming  some  airy  fortress, 

Or  bidding  some  giant  yield; 

Your  future  has  deeds  of  glory, 

Of  honor  (God  grant  it  may!), 

But  your  arm  will  never  be  stronger 
Or  the  need  so  great  as  To-day. 


66 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


TEN  HUNDRED  THOUSAND  STRONG! 


“We  are  Coming,  Mother  England,  ten  hundred  thousand  strong.”  This 
is  the  response  to  Kitchener’s  Call  for  more  soldiers.  They  are  marching 
shoulder  to  shoulder  to  report  for  duty  from  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  and 
from  all  quarters  of  the  Globe.  Just  as  in  the  trying  days  of  Abraham 
Lincoln,  when  the  boys  in  blue  so  nobly  responded  to  the  call  to  arms  for  liberty 
and  unity,  so  today  the  boys  in  khaki  are  answering  the  clarion  notes  of 
Britannia’s  Call  and  they  are  coming  a million  strong  and  more. 


Men  of  our  land  who  love  our  land,  arise! 

Your  country  needs  you.  Never  yet  in  vain 
That  clarion  call  has  quivered  to  the  skies, 

And  spread  as  living  fire  o’er  hill  and  plain. 

Your  country  needs  you;  leave  it  not  too  late. 

The  human  spiders  brood  on  every  hand, 

Swarm  overwhelming,  pitiless  as  Fate. 

Do  as  thy  fathers  did— up,  grasp  the  brand. 

Men  of  our  land  who  love  our  land,  unite 
To  wrest  from  hands  inept,  perverted  power. 

The  fearful  streams  they’ve  loosed  to  Heaven’s  sight 
Are  but  as  drops  to  oceans  red  that  lower. 

Trust  not  to  others  in  this  hour  of  need; 

Fight  for  thine  own  salvation,  stand  or  fall. 

O wait  not  idly  by  while  brothers  bleed; 

Your  country  needs  you,  answer  thou  her  call. 

Men  of  our  land  who  love  our  land,  mark  well, 

The  foe  is  strong  in  hoarded  strength  of  years. 

Will  ye  then  let  their  cannon  sound  our  knell? 

Shall  Britain’s  glory  sink  in  blood  and  tears? 

Shall  it  be  ever  written  of  our  might, 

“The  sons  she  trusted  failed  her,  so  she  fell?” 

O,  God  forbid  that  ever  morning’s  light 
Shall  see  our  doom  and  Liberty’s  farewell. 

Men  of  our  land,  you  love  our  land — aye,  all! 

Right  well  we  know  it  is  not  craven  fears 
That  dull  your  ear  unto  the  tocsin’s  call; 

’Tis  but  the  apathy  of  bloodless  years. 

The  spark  once  struck  will  grow  into  a flame 
That,  growing  yet,  shall  blast  with  fiery  breath 
The  sanguined  foe,  it  calls  a blush  to  name, 

Who  glut,  with  wanton  hand,  the  halls  of  Death. 

Men  of  our  land,  you  love  our  land.  Ah,  see! 

Rank  upon  rank  is  forming,  closely  set 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


67 


To  fight  for  all  we  love,  to  keep  us  free. 

But  still  the  call  comes,  “More  are  needed  yet.” 
More  thou  shalt  have,  0 Mother,  in  thy  need, 

From  us  and  from  thy  children  far  away, 

Till  all  lie  low,  or  stand  triumphant  freed 

From  despot’s  rule  and  blown  ambition’s  sway. 

Men  of  our  land,  all  love  our  land.  I hear 
The  deep-toned  thunder  of  a nation’s  rage. 

From  every  clime  that  holds  thine  honor  dear 
Thy  sons  resistless  come  to  keep  their  gage. 

All  tongues  as  one,  the  chorus  swells  afar 

And  beats  against  the  vault  of  earth’s  vast  dome 
In  cadence  stern  that  drowns  the  din  of  war: 

“Mother,  you  called  us — see,  we  come,  we  come!” 
Henry  Chappell,  in  London  “Daily  Express.” 


THREE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND  MORE. 

By  James  Sloan  Gibbons. 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand more, 

From  Mississippi’s  winding  stream  and  from  New  Eng- 
land’s shore; 

We  leave  our  plows  and  workshops,  our  wives  and 
children  dear, 

With  hearts  too  full  for  utterance,  with  but  a silent 
tear; 

We  dare  not  look  behind  us,  but  steadfastly  before; 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand more! 

If  you  look  across  tire  hilltops  that  meet  the  northern 
sky, 

Long  moving  lines  of  rising  dust  your  vision  may 
descry ; 

And  now  the  wind,  an  instant,  tears  the  cloudy  veil 
aside, 

And  floats  aloft  our  spangled  flag  in  glory  and  in  pride, 

And  bayonets  in  the  sunlight  gleam,  and  bands  brave 
music  pour; 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand more! 


68 


SONGS  OB'  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


If  you  look  all  up  our  valleys  where  the  growing  har- 
vests shine, 

You  may  see  our  sturdy  farmer  boys  fast  forming  into 
line; 

And  children  from  their  mothers’  knees  are  pulling  at 
the  weeds, 

And  learning  how  to  reap  and  sow  against  their  coun- 
try’s needs; 

And  a farewell  group  stands  weeping  at  every  cottage 
door; 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 
thousand  more! 

You  have  called  us,  and  we’re  coming,  by  Richmond’s 
bloody  tide 

To  lay  us  down,  for  Freedom’s  sake,  our  brothers’  bones 
beside, 

Or  from  foul  treason’s  savage  grasp  to  wrench  the 
murderous  blade, 

And  in  the  face  of  foreign  foes  its  fragments  to  parade. 

Six  hundred  thousand  loyal  men  and  true  have  gone 
before; 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand more! 


OUR  DRILL  SERGEANT. 

A few  months  back  he  wasn’t  much  to  speak  of; 

By  profession  just  a plain  commissionaire. 

If  you  addressed  him  he  would  touch  the  peak  of 
His  braided  cap  and  answer  you  with  care. 

You  see,  when  he  retired  from  active  service, 

With  medals  gained  while  fighting  with  the  Boer, 

His  grateful  country  said,  “What  you  deserve  is 
A shiny  stool  outside  some  office  door, 

My  old  Non-Com!” 

But  when  our  suburb  set  itself  to  muster 
Its  own  battalion  of  the  Spare  Time  Corps, 

The  authorities  were  in  a pretty  fluster 
For  want  of  men  to  drill  the  Johnny  Raw. 

“Now,  then!”  said  they  (of  course,  they  used  politer 
Language,  with  a more  persuasive  ring), 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


69 


“This  here’s  your  chance,  you  obsolete  old  blighter! 
Get  off  that  stool  and  come  and  serve  your  King, 
My  old  Non-Com!” 

So  now  we  all  obey  him  with  precision, 

And  fall  in  quickly  when  we  hear  him  shout. 

We  show  respect,  and  hope  he’s  short  of  vision 
When  we  wobble  as  we  try  to  right-about. 

Oh,  you  may  have  been  his  managing  director 
When  he  sat  upon  that  shiny  office  stool ; 

But  you’ve  got  to  hold  your  blanky  head  erect,  or 
You’re  nothing  but  a (censorated)  fool 

To  this  old  Non-Com! 

Dudley  Clark. 


CATERHAM  CAMP. 

(By  M.  H.  in  the  London  “Daily  Chronicle.”) 

0,  a picture  fair  is  Caterham  town 
In  the  calm  of  the  autumn  day,  boys, 

As  she  sits  in  her  frame  of  harvest-brown 
’Neath  skies  of  softening  gray,  boys; 

But  it’s  tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  in  Caterham  Camp 
Till  daylight  disappears. 

For  it  is  there  they  are  drilling — the  Guards,  boys, 
The  Scots  and  the  Irish  Guards,  boys, 

The  gallant  Coldstream  Guards,  boys, 

And  the  fearless  Grenadiers. 

They  have  come  from  Scotland’s  farthest  strand, 
From  the  fertile  fields  of  Ayr,  boys, 

From  Antrim’s  headlands  wild  and  grand 
And  the  plains  of  brave  Kildare,  boys, 

And  every  shire  of  England’s  soil. 

He’s  blessed  her  Volunteers, 

And  sent  them  to  drill  in  the  Guards,  boys, 

The  Scots  and  the  Irish  Guards,  boys, 

The  famous  Coldstream  Guards,  boys, 

And  the  dauntless  Grenadiers. 

There  are  peasants’  sons  in  their  rough  homespuns, 
There  are  lads  from  ducal  halls,  boys, 

But  rank  or  name  they’re  all  the  same 


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SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


When  “To  Arms”  their  country  calls,  boys, 

As  they  learn  to  fight  for  God  and  right, 

They  are  comrades  and  compeers, 

And  they’re  proud  to  belong  to  the  Guards,  boys, 
The  Scots  and  the  Irish  Guards,  boys, 

The  slashing  Coldstream  Guards,  boys, 

And  the  dashing  Grenadiers. 

0,  they  soon  shall  go  out  to  meet  the  foe 
In  Freedom’s  sacred  name,  boys, 

And  nobly  they’ll  keep  stainless  still 
The  Guards’  undying  fame,  boys; 

So  it’s  tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  in  Caterham  Camp 
Till  daylight  disappears. 

For  it’s  there  they  are  drilling — the  Guards,  boys, 
The  Scots  and  the  Irish  Guards,  boys, 

The  gallant  Coldstream  Guards,  boys, 

And  the  dauntless  Grenadiers. 


A UNITED  EMPIRE 

From  the  utmost  bounds  of  Empire 
Britain’s  sons  are  trooping  in, 

To  defend  their  country’s  freedom, 

To  support  their  kith  and  kin. 

Full  of  ardor,  fit  and  ready, 

Every  man  is  keen  to  fight 
For  the  honor  of  the  Empire, 

For  the  triumph  of  the  Right. 

War  is  hateful,  but  more  hateful 
Is  the  “blood  and  iron”  creed 
That  prompts  men  to  wholesale  slaughter 
And  to  pilage,  lust,  and  greed. 

Every  blow  now  struck  for  freedom, 

For  the  right  of  men  to  live 
Undisturbed  in  friendly  labor, 

Is  the  gift  each  man  can  give 

For  the  weary  world’s  redemption 
From  the  curse  of  sinful  pride 
In  the  “arm  of  flesh”  that  faileth, 

And  from  Kings,  who  truth  deride. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


71 


Briton,  Boer,  and  Indian  trooper 
And  our  kin  from  oversea, 

Comrades  all,  in  one  great  army, 

Shout  the  war-cry  of  the  free: — 

“Forward,  lads,  to  death  or  glory! 

Help  to  break  oppression’s  chain, 

Throw  your  shield  o’er  weaker  nations, 

Fight  for  Right  and  not  for  gain.” 

Then,  when  all  the  fight  is  over, 

And  the  roar  of  guns  shall  cease, 

May  God  grant  to  all  the  nations 
Blessing  in  abiding  peace. 

Edinburgh.  J.  Denham. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  BRAVE 

A brave  man  went  to  battle 
And  left  no  son  behind; 

A coward  stayed  home  safely 
To  propagate  his  kind. 

And  then  the  land  lamented 
Its  noblest  men  were  gone, 

Were  dead  with  no  descendants 
To  hand  the  torches  on. 

But  in  his  valiant  passing 
The  soldier  left  a deed 

To  serve  as  inspiration 
For  time’s  unborn  to  heed. 

When  in  his  generation 
He  heard  the  trumpets  cry 

The  coward’s  son,  responding, 

Went  bravely  forth  to  die. 

McLandburgh  Wilson. 


72 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


DRAKE’S  DRUM. 

By  Henry  Newbolt,  who  was  chosen  for  knighthood  recently  in  England. 
This  is  his  most  popular  production.  It  is  based  on  a Devonshire  tradition 
that  in  England’s  time  of  utmost  need,  Sir  Francis  Drake  will  return  to  defend 
her  on  the  seas.  Newbolt  was  born  in  Bilston,  England,  June  G,  1862,  and  now 
lives  in  London. 

Drake  he’s  in  his  hammock  an’  a thousand  miles  away, 
(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin’  there  below?) 

Slung  atween  the  round  shot  in  Nombre  Dios  Bay, 

An’  dreamin’  arl  the  time  o’  Plymouth  Hoe. 

Yarnder  looms  the  Island,  yarnder  lie  the  ships, 

Wi’  sailor  lads  a-dancin’  heel-an’-toe, 

An’  the  shore  lights  flashin’,  an’  the  Night-tide  dashing, 
He  sees  et  arl  so  plainly  as  he  saw  et  long  ago. 

Drake  he  was  a Devon  man,  an’  ruled  the  Devon  seas, 
(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin’  there  below?) 

Rovin’  though  his  death  fell,  he  went  wi’  heart  at  ease, 
An’  dreamin’  arl  the  time  o’  Plymouth  Hoe. 

“Take  my  drum  to  England,  hang  et  by  the  shore, 
Strike  et  when  your  powder’s  runnin’  low; 

If  the  Dons  sight  Devon,  I’ll  quit  the  port  o’  Heaven, 
An’  drum  them  up  the  Channel  as  we  drummed  them 
long  ago.” 

Drake  he’s  in  his  hammock  till  the  great  Armadas 
come, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin’  there  below?) 

Slung  atween  the  round  shot,  listenin’  for  the  drum, 
An’  dreamin’  arl  the  time  o’  Plymouth  Hoe. 

Call  him  on  the  deep  sea,  call  him  up  the  Sound, 

Call  him  when  ye  sail  to  meet  the  foe; 

When  the  old  trade’s  plyin’  an’  the  old  flag  flyin’, 
There  shall  find  him  ware  and  wakin’,  as  they  found 
him  long  ago! 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM. 

If  ye  do  not  feel  the  chain 
When  it  works  a brother’s  pain, 
Are  ye  not  base  slaves  indeed, 
Slaves  unworthy  to  be  freed? 

Is  true  freedom  but  to  break 
Fetters  for  your  own  dear  sake, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


73 


And  with  leathern  hearts  forget 
That  we  owe  mankind  a debt? 

No,  true  freedom  is  to  share 
All  the  chains  our  brothers  wear, 

And,  with  heart  and  hand,  to  be 
Earnest  to  make  others  free. 

J.  R.  Lowell. 

THE  CAUSE  OF  RIGHT. 

The  cause  of  Right  our  arms  maintain 
Against  the  foe  whose  God  is  might, 
Whose  faith’s  a myth,  whose  acts  profane 
The  cause  of  Right. 

Still  rages  on  the  Belgian  plain 
The  yet  unprecedented  fight, 

O God  of  Battles,  end  its  reign! 

Rise  o’er  the  worshippers  of  Cain, 
Resplendent  in  humaner  light, 

And  champion  in  the  great  campaign, 

The  cause  of  Right. 

W.  A.  B. 


“GAZE  ON  YOUR  SONS!” 

By  Alexander  James  Monroe, 
in  the  London  “Daily  Chronicle.” 

Ye  ancient  Gauls,  rise  from  your  graves, 

And  view  the  battle  from  afar, 

Not  with  broad  blades  or  trusty  staves 
Is  carried  on  the  game  of  war. 

Ye  British  sires,  gaze  on  your  sons, 

Nor  need  your  brows  with  shame  be  blenched; 

Gaze  on  them  as  they  face  the  Huns 
With  courage  cool,  yet  fire  unquenched. 

Not  showers  of  arrows  but  of  steel 
Fall  on  your  sons  like  tempest’s  hail; 

Yet  rest  again  in  peace  and  feel 

Your  sons  may  bleed  but  never  quail. 


74 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


The  flags  ye  bore  still  float  on  high: 
Sure  is  each  shot  and  true  each  blade, 
Though  many  fall  and  some  may  die, 
Your  sons  will  conquer  undismayed. 


TO  MY  COUNTRY 

There  may  be  woes  to  come  that  shall  outdye 
First  hues  of  victory,  and  shocks  more  dread 
That  search  the  spirit  at  its  fountain-head, 

And  cramp  the  heart  with  terror — but  where  shall  fly 
More  nobly  set  the  flag  of  liberty, 

Britain!  than  over  thee  to  freedom  bred; 

Or  over  these  thy  ranked,  heroic  dead, 

Or  over  these  thy  sons  who  dare  to  die? 

They  come  from  all  thy  borders  with  one  will 
From  eager  towns,  and  hamlets  sunk  in  sleep, 

The  shepherd  leaves  his  flocks  upon  the  steep, 

The  clansmen  draw  from  many  a Highland  hill: 

The  women  arm  them  and  forget  to  weep — 

Dear  land  of  home!  thy  breed  is  noble  still. 

G.  R.  M. 


AULD  SCOTLAND  STILL. 

fMr.  Murray  is  an  Aberdeenshire  man,  the  author  of  “ Hamewitb,”  and  the 
permanent  secretary  of  the  public  works  department,  South  Africa.] 

The  corn  was  turnin’,  hairst  was  near, 

But  lang  afore  the  scythes  could  start 
A sough  o’  war  gaed  through  the  land 
An’  stirred  it  to  its  benmost  heart. 

Nae  ours  the  blame,  but  when  it  came 
We  couldna  pass  the  challenge  by, 

For  credit  o’  oor  honest  name 
There  could  be  but  the  ae  reply. 

An’  buirdly  men,  frae  strath  an’  glen,. 

An’  shepherds  frae  the  bucht  an’  hill, 

Will  show  them  a’,  whate’er  befa’, 

Auld  Scotland  counts  for  something  still. 

Half-mast  the  castle  banner  droops, 

The  Laird’s  lament  was  played  yestreen, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


75 


An’  mony  a widowed  cottar  wife 
Is  greetin’  at  her  shank  alane. 

In  Freedom’s  cause,  for  ane  that  fa’s, 

We’ll  glean  the  glens  an’  send  them  three 
To  clip  the  reivin’  eagle’s  claws, 

An’  drook  his  feathers  i’  the  sea. 

For  gallant  loons,  in  brochs  an’  toons, 

Are  leavin’  shop  an’  yard  an’  mill, 

A’  keen  to  show  baith  friend  an’  foe, 

Auld  Scotland  counts  for  something  still. 

The  grim,  grey  fathers  bent  wi’  years 

Come  stridin’  through  the  muirland  mist, 

Wi’  beardless  lads  scarce  by  wi’  school 
But  eager  as  the  lave  to  ’list. 

We’ve  fleshed  o’  yore  the  braid  claymore 
On  mony  a bloody  field  afar, 

But  ne’er  did  skirlin’  pipes  afore 
Cry  on  sae  urgently  to  war. 

Gin  danger’s  there,  we’ll  thole  our  share, 
Gie’s  but  the  weapons,  we’ve  the  will, 
Ayont  the  main,  to  prove  again 

Auld  Scotland  counts  for  something  still. 

Charles  Murray,  in  the  London  “Times.” 


PAINTING  THE  LILY, 

Gilbert  H.  Collins,  in  London  “ Opinion.  ” 

The  stalwart  youth  in  civil  garb  was  strolling  down  the 
Strand, 

When  the  dear  old  busybody  button-holed  him  out  of 
hand. 

“For  shame,  my  fine  young  sir,”  she  said,  “to  waste 
your  hours  in  play 

Are  you  idle  when  your  King  and  Country  call  you  to 
the  fray?” 

“Yus,  I’m  aht  o’  work  just  nah, ” said  he,  a twinkle  in 
his  eye; 

And  the  dear  old  busybody  heaved  a sad,  reproachful 
sigh. 


76 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


“Oh,  come,  my  dear  young  man,  and  let  me  drive  you 
straight,”  she  said, 

“To  the  next  recruiting  station!”  but  he  grinned  and 
shook  his  head. 

“Then  do  let  me  persuade  you,  ” she  implored  in  accents 
wild, 

“Just  to  join  the  Territorials!”  Again  the  stranger 
smiled: 

“Naw,  I cawn’t  just  nah,  me  lidy,  for  to  tell  the  ’oly 
truth 

“I’ve  a gamey  arm  that  ain’t  well  yet,”  returned  the 
stalwart  youth. 

“Where  did  you  get  that  hurt?”  she  asked. 

He  answered  her  again: 

“Why  I got  it  in  the  firin’  line  upon  the  bloomin’ 
Aisne!” 


“WHERE  IS  THY  BROTHER?” 

From  the  Ms.  by  W.  B.  Scofield. 

Build  a strong  fort  that  can  not  be  demolished 
And  then  invent  a new  explosive  shell 
That  strikes  the  armored  walls  and,  in  the  striking, 
Blows  steel  and  masonry  and  all  to  hell. 

And  build  a ship  like  a great  floating  island, 

And  man  it  with  a thousand  sailors  brave, 

Then  speed  a sleek  torpedo  ’neath  the  water 
And  send  the  ship  and  crew  to  Ocean’s  grave. 

Or  rear  a church  by  centuries  of  labor, 

Whose  spires  point  upward  to  the  living  God, 

Then  train  your  cannon  on  its  sacred  turrets 
And  bring  the  structure  to  the  level  sod. 

And  teach  the  girl  wife  to  become  a mother, 

Who  gives  her  sons  her  soul  and  heart  and  breast, 
Then  mangle  the  fair  bodies  that  she  bore  you 
And  bid  her  say  “Dear  Lord,  Thou  knowest  best.” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


77 


Prove  once  again  that  swords  will  cut  through  sinews, 
That  bayonets  pierce  the  flesh  and  split  the  bone, 
That  nerves  will  quiver  when  they’re  torn  asunder, 
That  hearts  will  break,  ’though  they  were  made  of  stone. 


And  hear,  at  last,  the  Voice  that  once  lamented, 
Above  the  altar  of  a shepherd  slain, 

Of  all  your  brothers  It  demands  accounting, 

Speak,  Knights  of  Kultur!  Answer,  Sons  of  Cain! 
Worcester  Mass.,  Jan.  15,  1915. 


HE’D  DESERT  ON  THE  SPOT. 

Phyllis,  your  method  of  raising  recruits 
Smacks  of  the  press-gang  a trifle. 

Here  am  I wearing  impossible  boots 
And  marching  about  with  a rifle 
Because  you  have  said 
We  can  never  be  wed 

Until  I am  carried  home  wounded  or  dead. 


Now  I’ve  a number  instead  of  a name; 

The  cut  of  my  clothes  is  atrocious: 
Daily  I’m  drilled  until  aching  and  lame, 
By  officers  young  and  precocious, 

Who  force  me  to  lie 
On  my  tummy  to  try 
And  shoot  an  imagin’ry  bull  in  the  eye. 


Please  do  not  think  I’m  unwilling  to  go — 

I’ve  no  intention  of  quitting; 

But,  Phyllis,  there’s  one  thing  I really  must  know: 
For  whom  is  that  muffler  you’re  knitting? 

I don’t  care  a lot 

If  by  Germans  I’m  shot: 

But  if  that  is  for  me,  I’ll  desert  on  the  spot! 

Desmond  Carter,  London  “Opinion.” 


78 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


FOR  FREEDOM 

Sons  of  Britain,  famed  in  story  for  your  valor  in  the 
_ fight, 

Heirs  of  an  unsullied  glory,  guardians  of  our  human 
right, 

Still  the  struggle  looms  before  ye,  fraught  with  the  de- 
cisive hour. 

Still  the  menace  hangeth  o’er  ye  of  the  hated  despot’s 
power; 

But  with  thoughts  on  vict’ry  centred,  striking  as  ye 
ne’er  have  done, 

This  great  battle  ye  have"entered,  for  our  freedom  shall 
be  won. 

Sons  of  Belgium,  ’mid  the  slaughter  wrought  by  fierce 
outnumb’ring  foes, 

Where  your  manhood’s  blood  like  water  ’mid  your 
ruined  homesteads  flows, 

Courage  yet  a little  longer!  Those  vile  wrongs  which 
ye  endure 

Make  our  holy  purpose  stronger,  and  our  sense  of 
vict’ry  sure. 

With  a mighty  emulation  of  the  brave  deeds  ye  have 
done 

For  your  wronged  and  sufl’ring  nation,  soon  the  battle 
shall  be  won. 

France,  fair  France,  again  invaded  by  a scheming, 
envious  Power. 

By  its  savage  hosts  degraded  in  their  brief  triumphant 
hour, 

Brooding  o’er  the  shame  and  measure  of  the  deeds  your 
foes  have  wrought, 

Mourning  o’er  each  ruined  treasure  their  unreasoning 
rage  hath  sought, 

Burning  thoughts  of  indignation  shall  arouse  each  loyal 
son 

For  a glorious  reparation  when  the  battle  we  have  won. 


Russia,  from  the  east  descending  on  the  ruthless  foe- 
man’s  land, 

To  our  cause  the  aid  extending  of  thy  strong  deliv’ring 
hand, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


79 


Lo!  the  justice  of  our  mission  for  the  welfare  of  man- 
kind 

(Now  to  crush  the  mad  ambition  of  a Power  so  fierce 
and  blind) 

With  thy  might  shall  bring  salvation  from  the  rising 
of  the  sun, 

And  bring  peace  to  every  nation  when  the  battle  we 
have  won. 

Friends  of  progress,  wheresoever  struggling  towards 
the  nobler  life, 

Nothing  can  your  purpose  sever  from  the  issues  of  this 
strife ; 

With  the  mailed  fist  of  reaction  raised  to  strike  the 
fatal  blow, 

Can  your  country,  creed  or  faction  blind  you  to  the 
common  foe? 

There  is  no  real  neutral  nation,  though  the  conflict 
they  may  shun, 

For  the  world’s  emancipation  this  great  battle  must 
be  won. 

Cursed  Teuton,  who  with  vision  of  supreme  unques- 
tioned might 

Trod  with  scorning  and  derision  on  the  sacred  laws  of 
right, 

By  the  proud  aims  thou  didst  cherish,  by  the  just  God 
over  all, 

Thou  and  thy  designs  will  perish  and  thy  vaunting 
empire  fall, 

And  in  Hell’s  deep  destination,  when  thy  blighting 
race  is  run, 

Thou  shalt.  reap  thy  just  damnation  when  the  battle 
we  have  won. 

Glasgow.  W.  J. 


“POLAND  AND  FREEDOM  AGAIN.” 

Arise!  Men  of  Poland,  arise  in  your  might, 

For  you  morning  breaks,  ’tis  the  end  of  your  night; 
’Twas  but  for  a season  Hope  bade  you  farewell, 

Now  freedom’s  bright  dawn  bids  you  wake  from  your 
spell. 

The  world  shall  know  ’tis  a rising  of  men, 

When  Poland  awakens  to  freedom  again. 


80 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Let  the  Prussian  hound  feel  the  power  of  your  blow; 
Set  your  heel  on  the  neck  of  the  Austrian  foe. 

Vile  cur!  Cruel  serpent!  To  both  make  it  plain 
That  Poland  has  wakened  to  freedom  again. 

They  shall  know  as  they  come  and  writhe  in  their  pain 
That  Poland  has  wakened  to  freedom  again. 

Kociusko  shall  look  from  the  land  of  the  shades, 

And  rejoice  that  the  flower  of  your  valor  ne’er  fades; 
With  Campbell  shall  joy  in  the  spirit  to  see 
That  Poland  again  is  a land  of  the  free. 

Let  the  thought  nerve  your  arms  as  ye  add  to  the  slain, 
Be  your  battle  cry,  Poland  and  freedom  again! 

As  the  new  era  dawns  awake  from  your  spell, 

To  give  future  ages  the  lessons  to  tell; 

They  ne’er  can  be  slaves  who  cherish  like  thee, 

The.  hopes  of  the  brave,  the  hearts  of  the  free. 

You  shall  conquer  by  right,  you  shall  quit  ye  like  men, 
To  the  battle  cry,  Poland  and  freedom  again! 

James  Smillie. 


TO  THE  PRESENT=DAY  GERMANS. 

Ye  have  turned  your  minds  to  evil. 

Ye  have  washed  your  hands  in  blood. 

Ye  have  made  a solemn  covenant  with  sin; 

Ye  have  sworn  to  carry  carnage  over  continent  and  flood 
An  eternity  of  empire  to  win. 

Ye  have  trampled  on  the  peoples, 

Ye  have  crushed  the  poor  and  weak, 

Ye  have  filled  the  world  with  misery  and  death; 

Ye  have  laughed  to  scorn  the  blessing  on  the  merciful 
and  meek.  fc' ^ 

And  have  quite  forgot  how  fleeting  is  your  breath. 

Ye  shall  not  thus  forever. 

Go  unpunished  of  the  Lord. 

Ye  shall  learn  too  late  to  call  upon  His  name; 

When  your  hell-ambitions  perish  in  the  whirlwind  of 
' His  sword, 

Ye  shall  pay  for  tears  of  blood  with  tears  of  shame. 

R.,  in  “Worcester  Gazette.” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


81 


THE  WAR  LORD. 

Destroyer  of  a world’s  peace, 

Distributor  of  wreck  and  death; 

Thou,  thou  who  dare’st  Almighty  God 

With  each  blasphemous,  boasting  breath — 
How  wilt  thou  answer  to  His  call, 

Thou  who  hast  been  the  cause  of  all; 

A million  peasants’  vengeful  prayers 
Arise  and  beat  upon  His  throne, 

The  widow’s  curse,  the  orphan’s  cry, 

Each  breathe  thy  name — and  thine  alone. 
God  is  not  mocked,  nor  does  He  sleep, 

What  thou  hast  sown  ye  yet  must  reap. 

The  senseless  stones  have  found  a tongue 
To  blazon  forth  thy  deeds  of  shame; 

Their  ruined  beauties  point  to  Heav’n, 

Thy  monuments  of  deathless  “fame.” 

And  He,  for  Whom  these  walls  were  built, 
Think’st  thou  He  ridd’st  thee  of  the  guilt? 

Insensate,  brutal,  mark  thy  hordes, 

O’erflow  and  devastate  the  land; 

Not  war  they  wage,  but  murd’rous  hate, 

That  wastes  the  weak  with  sword  and  brand. 
Kindle  thy  fires.  They  still  shall  blaze 
For  thee  and  thine  through  endless  days. 

Thine  was  the  vioce,  the  word  of  power, 

That  loosed  this  flood  of  dread  and  woe; 

Thine  was  the  murd’rous  hand  that  smote 
And  crushed  a gallant  nation  low. 

Thine  was  the  power,  thine  is  the  crime, 
Unrivalled  in  recorded  time. 

‘Eye  for  an  eye,  and  tooth  for  tooth.” 

But  what,  in  justice,  is  thy  doom? 

It  passeth  man — -’tis  God  must  judge — 

A Nero  risen  from  the  tomb. 

But  still  deep  answereth  to  deep, 

What  thou  hast  sown  that  must  ye  reap. 

Possilpark.  Jean  Cowan  Paterson. 


82 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


LETTER  FRAE  THE  FRONT 

A’  ye  wha  are  young  single  men— 

’Boot  the  age,  say,  o’  ae  score  and  ten, 

We  are  needin’  your  help 
The  Germans  to  skelp, 

To  see  this  thing  thro’  to  the  en’. 

Ye  ha’e  hum’ed,  ye  ha’e  haw’d,  ye  ha’e  hech’d 
When  asked  to  come  owre  here  and  fecht; 

It’s  a sin  and  a shame, 

Ye  should  stey  there  at  hame, 
When  we’re  up  against  dooble  oor  wecht. 

Come  owre,  then,  and  gi’e  us  a haun’, 

Side  by  side  wi’  us  here  tak’  your  staun; 

Get  ready  and  fit, 

And  come  owre  for  a bit; 

Ye’ll  get  share  o’  the  fechtin’  that’s  gaun. 

It  is  we  wha  are  bearin’  the  brunt 
O’  the  Kaiser’s  onslauchts  at  the  front; 

Tho’  there’s  signs  to  be  seen 
That  his  fechtin’  machine 
Is  gettin’  a wee  bittie  blunt. 

Ye’d  think  by  his  airs  and  his  talk 
That  he  was  the  cock  o’  the  walk; 

Craw  he  ever  sae  crouse, 

It’s  o’  nae  earthly  use, 

We’ll  bring  him  yet  doon  aff  the  bauk. 

The  flo’er  o’  his  Prussian  Guaird — 

Did  we  yield  them  a fit  or  a yaird? 

No’  as  muckle’s  an  inch, 

Nor  the  breidth  o’  a trench; 

Their  bodies  noo  litter  the  swaird. 

Wi’  your  help,  I will  gie  ye  my  word 
That  we’ll  drive  back  the  haill  drucken  herd 
Owre  the  banks  o’  the  Rhine, 

And  droon  the  damned  swine 
That  put  weemen  and  weans  to  the  sword. 

Geo.  Cunningham. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


S3 


A HYMN  TO  THE  NAMELESS 

Nameless  the  men  of  Empire!  Thine  is  the  name: 
Shine  in  the  darkness,  Britain,  as  oft  of  yore. 

Fuel  are  they  for  the  beacon;  thine  the  flame, 

Lifting  thy  freemen  out  of  bondage  of  war. 

Tongue  of  the  beacon,  use  us  and  answer  tongue: 
Britain  speaks  to  her  own  from  sea  to  sea: 

Mother  and  child,  lovers,  and  old  and  young, 

All  at  her  word  give  all  in  the  faith  of  the  free. 

Doubt  and  darkness  without,  yet  peace  at  heart; 

This  is  thy  surety,  Britain,  to  sons  at  bay. 

Laughing,  envying  none,  they  salute,  they  depart, 
Caught  in  the  beacon’s  glory — the  nameless  they. 

Hark  to  that  fiery  troop!  They  ask  at  release, 
“Britain,  set  on  thy  watch-hills,  what  of  the  night?” 
Heal  not  slightly  this  hurt;  and  cry  not,  Peace, 

Peace,  where  only  is  certain  peace  in  the  right. 

“Might  that  is  lawless  hath  feet  of  iron  and  clay; 
Never  may  kingdom  fashioned  as  thus  endure— 

But  of  thy  foeman’s  love  of  his  country,  say, 

Honor  to  this  Love  is  the  might  that  is  sure.” 

— Edmund  Beale  Sargant,  in  “London  Times.” 


A PRAYER  FOR  HELP 

Canst  Thou  not  hear  us,  Thou  Almighty  God? 

Are  all  our  prayers  like  bubbles  upward  blown? 

The  earth  is  shaking.  Man  and  sea  and  sod, 

And  all  Thy  winds  together,  making  moan. 

Oh,  sacrifice!  Oh,  tragedy  sublime! 

The  fathers  old  are  marching  with  their  sons, 

To  fling  themselves  by  thousands  at  a time 
Against  the  maws  of  the  devouring  guns! 

And  where  art  Thou?  The  peoples  rage  like  beasts; 

With  faith  foresworn  and  passion  at  its  flood, 

They  Thee  forget,  and  at  their  dreadful  feasts 

They  lift  to  Thee  strange  flagons  warm  with  blood. 


84 


SONGS  OP  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


And  overhead,  within  the  fenceless  sky, 

Which  was  our  own,  and  made  for  our  delight, 

Are  shapes  like  birds  that  slaughter  as  they  fly, 

And  sing  of  hate,  with  all  the  stars  in  sight! 

We  whisper  low,  Are  these  the  days,  the  days, 

The  long,  last  days  of  all  the  years  of  time? 

Hide  us,  O God!  Our  cities  are  ablaze, 

Our  rivers  sicken  with  their  crimson  slime. 

If  thou  hast  missed  our  voices  from  the  choirs, 

How  can  we  praise  Thee  while  the  bullets  sing, 

And  smoke  wreaths  curl  above  our  dear  desires, 

And  faith  flies  slowly  on  a wounded  wing? 

Maker  of  worlds,  and  hope  of  every  race, 

Through  warring  camps,  by  suffering  souls  implored 

Send  Thou  to  us  from  his  exalted  place 

Thy  Angel  Michael,  with  his  flaming  sword! 

Ellen  M.  H.  Gates  in  “New  York  Sun.” 


THE  MEETING. 

W.  B.  Scofield. 

What  went  ye  out  to  see? 
Kaiser,  and  Czar  and  King, 
Whom  do  ye  seek; 
Through  pathways  of  the  slain 
Shall  Christ  return  to  reign — 
Jesus,  the  meek? 

If  you  should  find  Him  there, 
Pacing  some  battlefield, 

What  would  you  say; 
Or,  if  brought  face  to  face, 
How  shall  ye  find  the  grace 
Sham6d  to  pray? 

If  He  should  look  at  you, 
Gazing  your  soul  into, 

Where  would  ye  hide; 
Under  great  stacks  of  dead 
Cover  your  royal  head, 

Or  how  abide? 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


85 


If  He  should  speak  to  you, 
Saying,  “Thou  lovest  Me?” 
What  answer  give; 

“If  so,  then  feed  My  sheep!” 
Could  ye  find  tears  to  weep, 
Courage  to  live? 

If  He  stretched  forth  His  hands, 
Once  more  forgiving  you, 

Wouldst  take  and  hold; 
Or,  when  the  cross-scars  seen, 
Wouldst  cry:  “I  am  unclean: 
My  soul  is  sold?” 

Worcester,  Mass.,  Oct.  22,  1914. 


MAN  THE  TRENCHES! 

Out  in  France  our  men  are  fighting, 
Fighting,  cold,  and  death,  and  Hun; 

Wrongs  of  nations  they  are  righting, 
Wrongs  that  else  had  all  undone. 

Every  inch  of  ground  they’re  gaining 
With  a toll  of  life  is  won; 

Blood  they  pay  in  rivers  raining 
For  their  places  in  the  sun! 

Man  the  trenches,  man  the  trenches! 
Fetch  the  powder,  prime  the  gun! 

Blood  old  earth  demands  in  drenches, 
Price  for  places  in  the  sun. 

We  who  far  behind  are  sighing, 

Praying  that  our  men  have  won, 

Let  us  by  our  self-denying 
Share  the  task  so  well  begun. 

Gold  will  help  in  mercy’s  battle, 

Keep  the  wolf  Want  on  the  run; 

Ye  who  cannot  scabbards  rattle 
Buy  your  places  in  the  sun! 

Man  the  trenches,  man  the  trenches! 
Pay  your  portion,  every  one! 

Let  the  miser  say  he  blenches! 

Book  your  places  in  the  sun! 


86 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


ENGLAND  IN  TIME  OF  WAR. 

Fight  on,  thou  young  hero!  there’s  help  upon  the  way! 

The  light  horse  are  coming,  the  great  guns  are  coming, 

The  Highlanders  are  coming; — good  God,  give  us  the 
day! 

Hurrah  for  the  brave  and  the  leal!  Hurrah  for  the 
strong  and  the  true! 

Hurrah  for  the  helmets  of  steel!  Hurrah  for  the 
bonnets  o’  blue! 

A run  and  a cheer,  the  Highlanders  are  here!  a gallop, 
a cheer,  the  light  horse  are  here! 

A rattle  and  a cheer,  the  great  guns  are  here! 

With  a cheer  they  wheel  round  and  face  the  foe! 

As  the  troopers  wheel  about,  their  long  swords  are  out, 

With  a trumpet  and  a shout,  in  they  go! 

— Sydney  Dobell. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  CAMP 

By  Bayard  Taylor 

“Give  us  a song,”  the  soldiers  cried, 

The  outer  trenches  guarding, 

When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps  allied 
Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 

Lay,  grim  and  threatening,  under; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Malakoff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

There  was  a pause,  a guardsman  said: — 

“We  storm  the  forts  tomorrow, 

Sing  while  we  may;  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow.” 

They  lay  along  the  battery’s  side, 

Below  the  smoking  cannon; 

Brave  hearts  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde, 

And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love  and  not  of  fame; 

Forgot  was  Britain’s  glory; 

Each  heart  recalled  a different  name, 

But  all  sang  “Annie  Laurie.” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


87 


Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song 
Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong— 
Their  battle  eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,  her  name  he  dared  not  speak 
But  as  the  song  grew  louder, 
Something  upon  the  soldier’s  cheek 
Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 


BATTERY  L 

Battery  L of  the  R.  H.  A. — 

Oh,  the  cold  gray  light  o’  the  dawn — 

Woke  as  the  mists  were  wreathing  pale, 

Woke  to  the  moan  of  the  shrapnel  hail; 

Battery  L of  the  R.  H.  A. 

Sprang  to  their  guns  in  the  dawn. 

Six  guns  all  at  the  break  o’  day — 

Oh,  the  crash  of  the  shells  at  dawn — 

And  out  of  the  six  guns  only  one, 

Left  for  the  fight  ere  the  fight’s  begun, 

Swung  her  round  in  the  dawn. 

They  swung  her  clear,  and  they  blazed  away — 
Oh,  the  blood-red  light  o’  the  dawn — 

Osborne,  Derbyshire,  brave  Dorrell, 

These  are  the  heroes  of  Battery  L, 

These  are  the  men  of  the  R.  H.  A. 

Who  fought  that  gun  in  the  dawn. 

Ay,  that  was  a fight  that  was  fought  that  day, 
As  the  gray  mists  fled  from  the  dawn, 

Till  they  broke  up  the  enemy  one  by  one, 
Silenced  him  steadily  gun  by  gun — 

Battery  L of  the  R.  H.  A., 

One  lone  gun  in  the  dawn. 

James  L.  Harvey,  in  “The  Times.” 


88 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

By  Fred  C.  Smale. 

I’ve  been  over  across,  and  I’ve  got  my  wound, 
Though  only  a small  one,  it’s  true, 

A hole  in  my  leg,  the  size  of  a fag, 

And  I’ll  soon  be  as  good  as  new. 

They’ve  sent  me  down  here  to  my  folks  for  a week, 
And,  lummy,  I finds  it  a treat 
To  rest  my  fat  head  on  the  soft  of  a bed, 

An’  get  pickles  an’  pastry  to  eat. 


The  parson  he  calls  me  an  ’ero  and  sich, 

An’  brings  ladies  to  pay  me  a call, 

Which  is  wuss  than  a raid  from  a Hoolan  brigade, 
For  of  course,  I’m  no  ’ero  at  all. 

I answers  their  questions,  an’  tells  them  the  yarn 
All  over  and  over  again. 

They  ask  mos’  genteel,  “An’  how  did  you  feel?” 
Which  I finds  it  most  ’ard  to  explain. 


All  what  has  happened  seems  only  a dream, 

As  I look  on  the  fields  in  the  sun, 

All  so  peaceful  and  still,  with  the  church  on  the  hill, 
Just  the  same  as  ’twas  ’fore  it  begun. 

But  I just  close  my  eyes,  and  it  comes  back  again. 
The  wounded,  the  dyin’,  the  dead, 

The  trenches,  the  blood,  the  smoke,  an’  the  mud, 
An’  the  scream  of  the  shells  overhead. 


My  leg’s  a bit  stiff,  but  I’m  feeling  all  right. 

I’m  reporting  to-morrow  as  fit. 

I’m  bound  for  to  go,  though  the  missus  says  no, 
An’  wonders  where  next  I’ll  be  ’it. 

I’m  off  back  again,  to  the  mud  an’  the  rain, 
An’  all  they  can  say  is  no  good, 

I want  to  be  in  at  the  finish— Berlin  ! 

An’  I wouldn’t  stay  ’ome  if  I could. 


“Pearson’s  Weekly.” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


89 


A BRITISH  SAILOR’S  SONG. 

By  S.  R.  Lysaght  in  the  “London  Times.” 

The  shores  are  blind,  the  seas  are  mined, 
The  wild  sou’westers  blow; 

And  at  our  posts  on  stormy  coasts 
We  cruise  and  seek  the  foe, 

Behind  their  forts  in  sheltered  ports, 
Secure  their  ships  may  be; 

But  the  sea  was  made  for  sailor  men 
And  sailors  for  the  sea! 

Through  fields  they  sowed  we  clear  a road 
In  weather  they  don’t  feel; 

Long  watch  we  keep  while  they  can  sleep 
Behind  the  booms  of  Kiel. 

They  lock  us  out  and  wait  in  doubt 
For  orders  from  Berlin; 

But  on  the  seas  we  hold  the  keys — 

The  keys  that  hold  them  in! 

For  blows  they  dealt  below  the  belt, 

For  mines  their  hirelings  laid, 

For  things  like  these  that  spoil  our  seas 
We’re  out  until  we’re  paid. 

In  safety  they,  like  captives  stay, 

In  danger  we  go  free; 

For  the  sea  was  made  for  sailor  men, 

And  the  sailors  keep  the  sea! 


CAVALRY  SONG. 

By.EDMUND  Clarence  Stedman,  in  “Boston  Herald.” 

Our  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air, 

Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle; 

The  foeman’s  fires  are  twinkling  there; 

He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle! 

Halt!. 

Each  carbine  sends  its  whizzing  ball: 

Now,  cling!  clang!  forward  all, 

Into  the  fight! 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome, 
Through  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer! 
One  look  to  Heaven!  No  thoughts  of  home: 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 
Charge! 

Cling!  clang!  forward  all! 

Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall! 

Cut  left  and  right! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack! 

They  fall,  they  spread  in  broken  surges! 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back, 
And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 
Wheel! 

The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall: 

Cling!  clang!  backward  all! 


A CAMERON  SLEEPS. 

Peace,  perfect  peace,  and  all  around 
The  stress  and  strains  of  battle  sound, 

The  starry  sky  its  vigil  keeps, — 

For,  calmly,  here  a Cameron  sleeps.  . 

Your  canopy  is  Heaven’s  blue, 

But,  the  heather  hills  are  far  from  you, 

The  river,  where  your  life  was  shed, 

Has  all  its  silver  turned  to  red. 

Now,  we  are  proud — on  that  dread  day 
You  knew  no  flinching,  no  dismay. 

But  met  the  shrapnel  and  the  shell 
Undaunted, — and  a hero  fell! 

Peace,  perfect  peace,  and  all  around 
Noises  that  drowned  the  pibroch’s  sound, 

But  wondering  angels  looking  down, 

Struck  all  their  harps  in  your  renown! 

Peace,  perfect  peace,  and  all  around 
The  stress  and  strain  of  battle  sound, 

Sleep  soft;  He  reigns,  all  cowards  scorning, — 
Your  King  will  come,  and  name  you  in  the  morning. 

Glasgow,  18th  November,  1914.  C.  M.  Gordon. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


91 


THE  NINTH  LANCERS. 

“Oh,  the  wild  charge  they  made.” 

Melinite,  lyddite,  darkened  heaven, 

But  straight  at  the  guns  the  Lancers  rode 

By  the  light  of  the  rage  that  within  them  glowed — 

Straight  at  the  guns,  the  deadly  Eleven, 

That  had  raked  and  shelled  them  seven  times  seven. 
With  never  a halt  or  a needless  word, 

At  the  cannon  in  ambush  our  horsemen  spurred, 

Knights  of  Liberty,  glory’s  sons 

And  slew  the  gunners  beside  their  guns, 

And  captured  the  cannon,  the  roaring  Eleven, 

That  deafened  the  earth  and  darkened  the  heaven. 
Then  their  dauntless  remnant  came 
Out  of  the  hurricane,  out  of  the  flame, 

Covered  with  smoke  and  dust  and  fame. 

Shout,  you  shires,  with  a chorus  sent 
Ringing  from  Caithness  right  to  Kent, 

From  far  Northumberland  down  past  Devon, 

Shout  for  your  heroes,  Britain’s  sons 

Who  quenched  in  silence  the  thundering  guns 

That  darkened  like  doom  the  golden  heaven 

The  courage  that  lifted  their  hearts  shall  leaven 

All  who  in  Britain’s  name  go  forth 

From  east  and  west,  from  south  and  north, 

Under  the  great  Godspeed  of  Heaven. 

William  Watson  in  “London  Times.” 


THE  GERMANS  RETREAT 

Back  from  the  walls  of  Gay  Paree 
Your  armies  have  been  driven. 

Oh,  Great  War  Lord  of  Germany, 

In  vain  your  hordes  have  striven 
To  pierce  our  gallant  Allied  Lines 
And  reach  your  cherished  goal! 

In  life — to  suit  your  bad  designs 
You’ve  paid  a heavy  toll. 

But,  William,  though,  we’re  well  aware, 
For  life  you’ve  no  regard! 


92 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Ah,  cruel  and  blood-thirsty  slayer, 

You’ve  reaped  a poor  reward. 

For  all  the  carnage  on  the  sward, 

Red  with  the  blood  of  slain, 

You’re  ardent  hopes  have  now  been  marred, 
Your  fighting  is  in  vain. 

For  you  may  try  to  stem  the  tide, 

But  that  you’ll  never  do, 

For  our  undaunted  Allied  side 
Will  see  this  struggle  through. 

This  bloody  war  you  did  begin, 

So  peace  we  will  have  never 
Until  you — “Butcher  of  Berlin!” 

Your  power  is  wrecked  for  ever. 

J.  A.  Bain,  Inverness. 


THE  TRUMPETER. 

We  hear  him  daily,  far  too  soon, 
Announcing  day  begun, 

Before  the  setting  of  the  moon, 

Or  rising  of  the  sun — 

For  from  our  dreams  he  bids  us  wake, 
And  find  our  boots  for  Britain’s  sake. 

His  plangent  music  drives  us  out 
To  shiver  on  parade; 

All  day  it  orders  us  about, 

And  has  to  be  obeyed — 

We  take  our  breakfast,  dinner,  tea, 
At  mercy  of  his  melody. 

The  regiment  mustered  for  a drill 
Must  note  his  briefest  call; 

The  halt  or  gallop  at  his  will, 

The  master  of  us  all — 

His  lips  control  the  fearsome  force 
That  represents  five  hundred  horse. 

And  what  of  him,  the  man  behind 
This  brazen  voice  of  power? 

Is  he  of  superhuman  kind, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


93 


Some  warrior  grim  and  dour, 

Who  thus  manoeuvres  with  a breath 
Us,  who’d  obey  him  to  the  death? 

He’s  five  feet  high,  or  rather  less, 

A laddie  pale  and  slim, 

Who’s  seen,  but  seldom  heard,  unless 
His  trumpet  speaks  for  him — 

He  wakes  us  early,  yet,  poor  elf, 

Perforce  must  first  be  up  himself! 

W.  K.  H. 


AN  INTERLUDE. 

Out  of  the  trenches  the  fighters  came 
Stealing  an  hour  from  the  cruel  game. 
Respite  they  asked  from  the  smoky  din, 

Just  for  a moment  a breath  to  win. 

Out  of  the  trenches  they  crept  in  view — 
German  and  Briton  and  Frenchman,  too; 
Scaling  their  way  o’er  the  grimy  wall — 
Briton  and  German  and  lively  Gaul, 

Foemen  and  neighbors  and  brothers,  all. 

There  for  a moment  they  dropped  their  hate, 
Greeting  each  other  as  mate  and  mate; 
Greeting  with  laughter  the  harmless  jest, 
Merrily  passing  the  hour  of  rest. 

Then  from  the  bugle  arose  the  call — 

Back  ran  Briton  and  German  and  Gaul, 
Fighters  and  foemen — and  brothers  all. 

— '‘Cleveland  Plain  Dealer.” 


THE  COLONEL’S  PRAYER. 

Corporal  William  Brown  of  the  Seaforth  Highlanders,  who  has  lately  been 
in  hospital,  was  one  of  the  first  to  leave  for  the  front  with  the  Expeditionary 
Force,  and  in  an  interview  he  told  how.  his  colonel  prayed  before  they  went 
into  action.  Corporal  Brown  has  with  him  the  prayer  put  into  verse  as  follows. 

Lord,  ere  I join  in  deadly  strife, 

And  battle’s  terrors  dare, 

First  would  I render  soul  and  life 
To  thine  Almighty  care. 

And  when  grim  death  in  smoke- wreaths  robed, 
Comes  thundering  o’er  the  scene, 

What  fear  can  reach  the  soldier’s  heart, 

Whose  trust  in  Thee  has  been? 


94 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


THE  LONDON  SCOTTISH. 

O old  grey  Mother  that  bred  them,  what  of  the  sons  ye 
bore? 

O some  are  lying  among  the  slain  where  the  snarling 
cannons  roar 

With  the  bruised  grape-juice  on  their  pale  dead  lips, 
and  the  vine  leaves  stained  with  their  blood 

For  their  funeral  pall,  while  the  dreich  sky  drips  and 
the  limbers  churn  the  mud. 


O old  grey  Mother  of  Sorrows,  why  did  they  tryst  with 
Death 

In  a foreign  land  and  you  not  at  hand  to  speed  their 
departing  breath? 

They  heard  the  cry  of  the  stricken  wife  and  the  wail 
of  the  wandered  bairns, 

And  they  remembered  the  old  hill  fights  and  the  graves 
in  the  mountain  cairns 

When  their  fathers  fell  on  the  purple  heath  for  love  of 
their  hill-made  laws 

Ere  the  old-feuds  ended  and  old  hates  died  in  the  worth 
of  a common  cause. 


0 Mother,  0 old  grey  Mother,  why  are  ye  proud,  so 

proud, 

Your  eyes  are  dimmed  with  your  sorrow  but  your  old 
grey  head  is  unbowed? 

Shall  I weep  for  my  bairns  in  their  glory?  Shall  I 
whine  that  my  sons  were  men? 

Let  them  fall  from  the  ranks  in  hundreds,  I shall  fill 
up  the  ranks  again. 

1 have  sons  across  the  great  waters  as  I have  sons  at 

my  knee, 

And  they  will  go  at  my  bidding  till  the  stricken  lands 
are  free. 

O old  grey  Mother  that  sent  them,  what  will  your 
prize  be  then? 

Widowed  women  and  fatherless  bairns  by  many  a 
street  and  ben, 

And  the  praise  of  the  whole  wide  world  beside  for  my 
men  that  were  truly  men. 


C.  J.  K. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


95 


THE  SEARCHLIGHTS. 

Political  morality  differs  from  individual  morality,  because  there  ia  no  power 
above  the  State.— -General  von  Bernhardi. 

Shadow  by  shadow,  stripped  for  fight, 

The  lean  black  cruisers  search  the  sea. 
Night-long  their  level  shafts  of  light 
Revolve  and  find  no  enemy. 

Only  they  know  each  leaping  wave 
May  hide  the  lightning  and  their  grave. 

And,  in  the  land  they  guard  so  well, 

Is  there  no  silent  watch  to  keep? 

An  age  is  dying;  and  the  bell 

Rings  midnight  on  a vaster  deep; 

But  over  all  its  waves  once  more 

The  search-lights  move  from  shore  to  shore. 

And  captains  that  we  thought  were  dead, 

And  dreamers  that  we  thought  were  dumb, 
And  voices  that  we  thought  were  fled 
Arise  and  call  us,  and  we  come: 

And,  “Search  thine  own  soul,”  they  cry, 

“For  there,  too,  lurks  thine  enemy.” 

Search  for  the  foe  in  thine  own  soul, 

The  sloth,  the  intellectual  pride, 

The  trivial  jest  that  veils  the  goal 

For  which  our  fathers  lived  and  died; 

The  lawless  dreams,  the  cynic  art, 

That  rend  thy  nobler  self  apart. 

Not  far,  not  far  into  the  night 

These  level  swords  of  light  can  pierce; 

Yet  for  her  faith  does  Britain  fight, 

Her  faith  in  this  our  universe, 

Believing  Truth  and  Justice  draw 
From  founts  of  everlasting  law. 

Therefore  a Power  above  the  State, 

The  unconquerable  Power,  returns. 

The  fire,  the  fire  that  made  her  great, 

Once  more  upon  her  altar  burns, 

Once  more,  redeemed  and  healed  and  whole, 

She  moves  to  the  Eternal  Goal. 

— Alfred  Noyes  in  the  “London  Times.” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


96 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  DESTROYERS. 

“I  aye  telt  ye  what  wad  happen 
An’  ye  see  it’s  a’  come  true, 

When  oor  Navy  starts  afightin’, 

Fegs,  they  ken  a thing  or  two. 

For  they  never  miss  the  target, 

An’  each  shot  aye  finds  its  mark; 
Aye,  the  German  Navy’s  tremblin’ 
Noo  oor  guns  begin  tae  bark.” 


“But  what  is  it,  John,  ye’re  meanin’, 
Tell  me  what  has  happened  noo?” 
My  son  simply  waved  his  paper, 
“Aye,  they  ken  a thing  or  two, 

For  there’s  no’  a Navy  floatin’, 

An’  I carena  wha  they  be, 

That  can  match  oor  Tars  an’  Jollies; 
We  are  mistress  o’  the  sea.” 


“But  excuse  me,  John,  a minute, 
Dinna  gang  sae  awfu’  fast, 

What  has  happened  ye’re  sae  happy, 
Is  the  war  a’  ower  at  last?” 

“No’  exactly,  no’  exactly, 

That,  I think,  will  last  a wee, 

But  the  Navy’s  gotten  started, 

An’  they’ve  started  weel,”  says  he. 


“If  ye’ll  listen  I will  tell  ye 
Hoo  we  gied  the  Germans’  socks; 
IJoo  that  weel-named  ship  Undaunted 
Under  Captain  Cecil  Fox, 

Wi’  the  help  o’  four  destroyers, 
Legion,  Lennox,  Loyal,  Lance, 

Sank  the  Germans’  whole  flotilla, 

Fegs,  it  reads  like  a romance. 

“It  was  off  the  coast  of  Holland 
That  four  Germans  were  espied 
Sneakin’  back  tae  Wilhelmshaven; 

’No,  ye  don’t,’  our  Captain  cried; 
‘Far  too  long  ye’ve  kept  us  waitin,’ 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


97 


‘Far  too  Iona  ye’ve  hid  away 
In  the  safety  of  Kiel  Harbor, 

But  we’ll  MAKE  you  fight  to-day.’ 

“‘Clear  for  action!’  ” All  were  ready, 
And  the  men  behind  the  guns 
Smiled  in  grim  anticipation 

As  they  watched  the  fleein’  Huns. 
Guns  of  cruiser  and  destroyers, 

Every  one  trained  on  the  mark, 

Then  the  order  came,  ‘Engage  them,’ 
And  the  guns  began  to  bark. 

“Not  a gunner  missed  his  target, 

Every  shot  was  sent  to  tell, 

Lennox,  Legion,  Lance,  and  Loyal 
Did  their  duty,  did  it  well. 

Captain  Fox  of  the  Undaunted 
Smiling  grimly  said,  ‘Well  done! 

For  I owe  them  for  a little 
Thing  they  did  the  Amphion!’ 

“And  it  soon  was  over,  mither; 

Where,  but  lately  there  had  been 
Four  big  German  crack  destroyers 
Not  a vestige  could  be  seen; 

Every  one  was  at  the  bottom, 

While  OUR  loss  of  life  was  nil; 

To  the  Prussian  Bully,  mither, 

This  will  be  a bitter  pill.” 

Syne  my  son  started  singin’ 

“Britons  never  shall  be  slaves.” 
“That  is  true  as  Gospel,  mither, 

While  aloft  the  ’old  rag’  waves.” 

An’  I’m  o’  the  same  conviction, 

We’ve  nae  fear  o’  German  Huns, 

For  we’ve  proved,  an’  maist  emphatic, 
That  we’ve  MEN  behind  OOR  guns. 

The  best  laid  schemes  o’  mice  and  men 
Gang  aft  agley, 

Especially  when  sic  plans  are  laid 
In  Germany. 


Dundee. 


Granny. 


98 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  MAN  IN  THE  TRENCH. 

I shiver  with  the  bitter  cold 
And  ache  from  head  to  feet 
And  wrap  my  blanket  fold  on  fold, 

As  others  do  in  lines  untold, 

Till  blood-soaked  edges  meet, 

And  oh!  but  heavy  is  my  heart! 

I think  of  home  afar — 

The  wife  from  whom  I’ve  had  to  part 
That  I might  help  this  war. 

That  I might  help  this  war,  dear  Lord, 

When  all  I want  is  peace! 

0!  Christ,  who  once  was  man  with  us, 

Pray  God  that  it  may  cease! 

The  dark  sky  lowering  overhead 
Is  stained  with  crimson  flame. 

Beneath,  the  bloody  field  is  spread 
With  heaps  on  heaps  of  crushed  and  dead — 
To  help  their  country’s  fame, 

Crowd  thoughts  of  home,  alas!  so  far, 
Which  I no  more  shall  see 
Since  I must  fight  this  bloody  war 
For  my  country’s  victory. 

That  I must  fight  for  victory,  Lord, 

When  all  I want  is  peace! 

O!  Christ,  who  once  was  man  with  us, 

Pray  God  that  war  may  cease! 

My  comrade  close  beside  me  cries — 

Sinks  dying  at  my  feet — 

I crouch  beside  him  where  he  lies, 

Amid  the  death  that  shrieking  flies 
That  all  of  us  must  meet. 

0!  little  son  of  mine  so  far 
From  all  this  bloody  strife 
To  save  you  I must  fight  this  war — 

If  need  be  give  my  life. 

Must  give  my  life  in  war,  dear  Lord, 

When  all  I want  is  peace. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


99 


0 ! Christ,  who  once  was  man  with  us, 

Pray  God  that  it  may  cease! 

Amidst  the  shriek  of  shot  and  shell, 

Of  dying  groan  and  call, 

I fight  this  man-made,  hideous  Hell 
Until  I,  too,  shall  fall, 

Ah,  love  and  home  and  peace  afar! 

Through  the  cannon’s  smoke  shines  clear! 

For  me  at  least  is  ended  war — 

I’m  shot — and  left  in  the  rear! 

“Died  fighting  to  the  last,”  dear  Lord, 

When  I only  wanted  peace. 

0!  Christ,  who  once  was  man  with  us, 

Pray  God  that  war  may  cease! 

— Nannie  Miles  Durant,  in  St.  Paul  Despatch. 


FOR  OUR  SEAMEN. 

From  “London  Times.” 

Seamen,  a song  for  you 
Down  on  the  deep, 

Lovers  may  long  for  you, 
Mothers  may  weep; 

You  shall  not  take  your  ease 
Home  from  the  heavy  seas 
Till  from  our  enemies 
Secure  we  sleep. 

England  believes  in  you, 

Seamen,  her  sons; 

Her  high  heart  heaves  in  you, 
Venturous  ones; 

Soon  shall  ye  come  to  grips, 
Soon  shall  your  long,  gray  ships 
Deal  with  their  lightening  lips 
Death  from  your  guns. 

Songs  shall  be  sung  of  you, 

Tales  shall  be  told; 

Fame  shall  be  young  of  you 
When  we  are  old; 


100 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Long  through  the  countryside 
Shall  their  brave  names  abide 
Who  fought,  endured,  and  died 
Our  peace  to  hold. 


FROM  THE  TROOPER’S  DITTY. 

Ha!  ha!  how  thickly  on  our  casques 
Their  pop-guns  rattle  shot; 

Spur  on,  my  lads,  we’ll  give  it  them 
As  sharply  as  we’ve  got. 

Now  for  it: — now,  bend  to  the  work — 

Their  lines  begin  to  shake; 

Now  through  and  through  them — bloody  lanes 
Our  flashing  sabres  make! 

“Cut  one — cut  two— first  point,”  and  then 
We’ll  parry  as  we  may; 

On,  on  the  knaves,  and  give  them  steel 
In  bellyfuls  to-day. 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  for  Church  and  State, 

For  Country  and  for  Crown. 

We  slash  away,  and  right  and  left 
Hew  rogues  and  rebels  down. 

Another  cheer!  the  field  is  clear, 

The  day  is  all  our  own; 

Done  like  our  sires — done  like  the  swords 
God  gives  to  guard  the  Throne! 

— William  Motherwell. 


WITH  THE  FLEET. 

Cruisers  o’  the  battle  line 
Veerin’  through  the  gloom, 

Borin’  through  the  fog-bank, 
Snorin’  through  the  fume, 

Out  to  wake  the  thunder, 

An’  to  start  the  crack  o’  Doom, 
All  along  the  Lowland  Sea. 

Oh,  it’s  queer  the  things  you’re  eelin’ 
When  the  fog’s  a-rollin’  down, 
“Ware’,  lads,  ’ware, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


101 


Wi’  the  mines  awash  to  lee,” 

Till  you’d  sell  your  ’opes  o’  Glory 
For  the  lights  o’  London  Town, 

“ ’Ware,  lads,  ’ware, 

For  it’s  up  to  you  an’  me.” 

Then  ram  her  round  to  starboard, 
An’  back  along  the  zones, 

Where  the  mines  are  driftin’, 

An’  you  feel  ’em  in  your  bones, 

An’  skin  your  eyes  to  windward 
For  Mistyer  Davy  Jones 
Is  out  along  the  Lowland  Sea. 

Then  it’s  tumble  up,  tumble  up, 

Clear  the  for’ard  guns. 

’Alf  a point  to  windward, 

An’  let  ’em  rip,  my  sons, 

An’  we’ll  blow  the  German  eagles 
Where  Atilla  and  ’is  ’Uns 
Won’t  find  em’  on  the  Lowland  Sea. 

Cruisers  o’  the  battle  line, 

Funnels  all  aroar, 

Reekin’  down  the  Dogger  trail, 
Twenty  knots  or  more, 

Out  to  clean  the  ocean  up 
From  Denmark  to  the  Nore. 

All  along  the  Lowland  Sea. 

J.  L.  H. 


BIVOUAC  SONG 

Gather  round  the  camp-fires’  light,  boys, 

I’ll  sing  you  an  hour  away; 

We’ll  be  jolly  awhile  tonight,  boys, 

Let  tomorrow  bring  what  it  may. 

Our  way  has  been  weary  and  long,  boys, 

Yet  over  the  rolling  foam 
We’ll  go  back  on  the  wings  of  my  song,  boys, 

To  the  eyes  o’  the  girls  at  home. 

Then  back  let  each  heart  incline,  boys, 
To  the  isle  across  the  foam. 

Where  the  stars  of  beauty  shine,  boys, 
In  the  eyes  of  the  girls  at  home. 


102 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


They  were  wet  when  we  said  good-bye,  boys, 
And,  whate’er  the  time  since  then, 
They’ll  seldom  be  wholly  dry,  boys, 

Until  we  return  again. 

When  we’ve  quelled  the  foeman’s  hate,  boys, 
And  need  no  longer  roam, 

A hundred  welcomes  wait,  boys, 

In  the  eyes  of  the  girls  at  home. 

But  if  they’re  to  weep  our  fall,  boys, 

In  the  death-roll  read  each  name, 

We’ll  take  care  that  grief  shall  be  all,  boys; 

They’ll  have  never  a stain  of  shame. 

Be  our  battles  lost  or  won,  boys, 

’Neath  hut,  and  hall  and  dome, 

Pride  will  tell  of  our  duty  done,  boys, 

In  the  eyes  of  the  girls  at  home. 


AN  ONLY  SON 


On  observing  the  first  five  names  in  the  Roll  of  Honor  published  in  the 
London  “Morning  Post”  obituary  column  on  a recent  day  were  those  of  only 
sons,  the  father  of  an  only  son  now  serving  with  the  forces  wrote  the  following 
lines: — 

Buried  in  a nameless  grave, 

Laid  aside  with  other  Brave, 

His  life  for  King  and  Right  he  gave, 

Our  only  son. 

A handsome,  happy,  English  boy, 

His  soldier  spurs  yet  hardly  won, 

A father’s  pride,  his  mother’s  joy, 

An  only  son. 

He  answered  to  the  Nation’s  call, 

We  ill  could  spare  our  one  and  all, 

And  prayed  God  would  not  let  him  fall, 

Our  only  one. 

But  fortune  failed  him  in  the  strife, 

Our  pride  was  in  a moment  gone, 

We  start  again,  just  man  and  wife, 

Without  a son. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


103 


Grieve  we?  Yes,  but  not  repine, 

We  know  a man  with  children  nine, 
And  every  one  in  the  firing  line, 

Every  one. 

For  all  should  fight,  and  some  must  die; 
He  takes  his  chance,  does  an  only  son, 
And  parents  bow  and  humbly  cry, 
“Thy  will  be  done.” 

A.  H.  D. 


A BRITISH  NAVAL  SONG 

We  sweep  the  seas! 

Our  glorious  Flag  unfurl’d 
From  North  to  South,  from  East  to  West 
Shines  o’er  the  world! 

Our  cannon’s  bellowing  thunder 
Roars  with  the  roaring  waves — 

For  Britain’s  foes  wild  ocean  holds 
Nothing  but  graves! 

We  sweep  the  seas! 

On  waters  far  and  near 
Our  signals  flash,  and  write  in  fire 
Our  meanings  clear! 

No  other  land,  no  other  race 
Can  match  our  British  men — 

They’ve  won  a thousand  fights  before, 
They’ll  win  again! 

We  sweep  the  seas! 

We  rule  the  restless  foam — 

We  struggle,  not  for  place  or  pelf, 

We  fight  for  Home!— 

Loud  let  our  shout  of  “Victory!” 

Ring  on  the  favoring  breeze — 

Down  with  the  foe  ten  fathoms  deep! 

We  sweep  the  seas! 

— Marie  Corelli  in  the  “London  Mail.” 


104 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


THE  DEAD  VOLUNTEER 

Here  lies  a clerk  who  half  his  life  had  spent 
Toiling  at  ledgers  in  a city  gray, 

Thinking  that  so  his  days  would  drift  away, 
With  no  lance  broken  in  life’s  tournament; 

But  ever  ’twixt  the  books  and  his  bright  eyes 
The  gleaming  eagles  of  the  legions  came, 

And  horsemen  charging  under  phantom  skies 
Went  thundering  past  beneath  the  oriflamme. 

And  now  those  waiting  dreams  are  satisfied, 
For  in  the  end  he  heard  the  bugle  call, 

And  to  his  country  then  he  gave  his  all, 
When  in  the  first  high  hour  of  life  he  died. 

And  falling  thus,  he  wants  no  recompense 
Who  found  his  battle  in  the  last  resort; 

Nor  needs  he  any  hearse  to  bear  him  hence 
Who  goes  to  join  the  men  of  Agincourt. 

“London  Spectator” 


THE  BATTLESHIP  REMARKS 

(By  E.  S.  Martin.) 

I am  the  Indispensable, 

The  sea  depends  on  me. 

Without  my  aid  there  can’t  be  trade, 

Nor  can  a state  be  free. 

Whoe’er  would  plough  the  heaving  deep 
And  realize  his  will, 

My  help  must  have,  my  power  must  keep, 
No  matter  what  the  bill. 

My  ribs  are  stark;  in  mighty  course 
Steel  bands  my  entrails  gird; 

With  power  of  twenty  thousand  horse 
My  whirling  screws  are  stirred. 

With  weight  of  twenty  thousand  tons 
On  ocean’s  tides  I press. 

From  ten  miles  off  my  artful  guns 
The  foeman  can  distress. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


105 


Nor  bale  nor  box  my  bowels  hide, 

Except  my  needful  stores. 

With  nice  machines  my  whole  inside 
Is  packed,  and  men  by  scores, 

No  gainful  errand  wins  me  tool, 

My  cruises  yield  no  pelf, 

And  though  my  bunkers  choke  with  coal 
I burn  it  all  myself. 

I’m  built  to  stand  a lawful  shock; 

I don’t  mind  being  hit; 

But  when  my  bottom  touches  rock 
It  jars  me  quite  a bit. 

I hate — my  bottom’s  none  too  thick — 
Things  not  discerned  till  felt; 

Torpedoes  do  a dirty  trick — 

They  hit  below  the  belt. 

This  is  my  day.  It  may  not  be 
A long  one,  but  it’s  mine. 

It  may  go  on  for  aught  I see 
Till  Mars  takes  down  his  sign. 

Men  groan,  and  say  I come  too  high; 

Ha!  ha!  What’s  that  to  me? 

The  Indispensable  am  I, 

And  boss  of  all  the  sea. 

— In  the  February  “Scribner.” 


THE  MAN  AT  THE  FRONT 

I ask  not  his  name  or  his  nation, 

Or  whether  his  cause  be  right; 

How  high  or  how  low  his  station — 

Let’s  pledge  him  a toast  tonight! 
Whatever  his  creed  or  color, 

He  is  facing  the  battle’s  brunt; 

From  the  Indus,  the  Rhine,  Tay,  Shannon  or 
Tyne— 

Hurrah  for  the  man  at  the  front! 

On  the  Yukon  his  cabin  is  dreary, 

On  the  Danube  his  castle’s  in  gloom; 

In  the  trench  his  poor  body  is  weary — 

That  trench  that’s  so  often  a tomb! 


106 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


But  his  soul  is  aflame  with  devotion, 

A fire  that  death  only  can  quench; 

Let  us  send  him  from  here  a word  of  good  cheer — 
Hurrah  for  the  man  in  the  trench! 

We  are  neutral,  you  say?  Yes,  my  brother, 

God  grant  we  may  ever  be  so! 

But  you  thrill  at  brave  deeds  in  another, 
Though  he  be  your  bitterest  foe. 

So  I ask  not  his  name  or  his  nation, 

Or  whether  his  cause  be  right — 

To  the  man  at  the  front,  who  is  bearing  the 
brunt, 

I give  you  a toast  tonight! 

East  Brewster.  Michael  Fitzgerald 


THE  ’APPY  THOUGHT 

Old  Bill  ’e  was  the  cheeriest  chap 
As  ever  ’eld  a gun; 

’Is  gruel  ’e  took  like  hinfant’s  pap — 

’Ell  could  not  stop  ’is  fun. 

When  ’arf  our  boys  ’ad  ’orrid  ’umps, 

An’  all  was  overwrought, 

Old  Bill  ’ud  shout,  “Look  ’ere,  you  chumps, 
I’ve  struck  an  ’appy  thought!” 

An’  then,  some’ow  ’e’d  make  us  laugh — 
’E’d  almost  make  us  feel 

We’d  killed  a bloomin’  fatted  calf 
An’  was  fed  up  on  veal! 

Whereas  our  bellies  ’owled  for  bread, 

Our  sperits  groaned  for  sleep 

Upon  that  soft  an’  barmy  bed 
O’  mud  four  hinches  deep. 

’Is  ’appy  thought  they  alius  came 
When  all  looked  blushin’  blue; 

They  bucked  us  up  to  play  the  game 
An’  see  the  dam  thing  through. 

’Is  smile  was  wuth  a box  o’  pills 
An’  pots  o’  beer  galore  . 

There  never  was  a smile  like  Bill’s 
Nor  won’t  be  any  more. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


107 


Ho,  ’e  was  brave  an’  straight  an’  fine, 

But  ’e  was  glorious  when 
’E  made  ’is  dash  to  fire  the  mine 
Which  seven  other  men 
’Ad  boldly  tried  to  do — an’  died 
Afore  they  reached  the  spot  . 

Of  course,  ye  see,  sich  things  must  be, 

Else  Britain  goes  to  pot. 

“So  long,  you  chumps!  ’Ere’s  luck! 

Cheer  oh!” 

Them  was  the  words  ’e  spoke. 

’E  crawled  a ’undred  yards  or  so, 

Then  hup!  an’  went  like  smoke! 

We  ’eld  our  breff  to  watch  ’im  sprint 
Thro’  yon  most  ’elfish  blast — 

But  God!  ’ow  we  did  yell  when  ’e 
Was  on  the  fuse  at  last! 

Ho  yuse,  the  mine  went  off  all  right; 

It  done  its  dooty  well. 

I dunno  if  Bill  saw  the  sight, 

For  nearin’  ’ome  ’e  fell. 

Ay,  there  was  Bill  a-layin’  still, 

A-smilin’  strange  an’  cold. 

Yet  seemed  to  ’ave  an  ’appier  thought 
Than  ever  ’e  ’ad  told. 

J.  J.  B. 


THE  COLORS  OF  THE  FLAG 

What  is  the  blue  on  our  flag,  boys? 

The  waves  of  the  boundless  sea, 

Where  our  vessels  ride  in  their  tameless  pride 
And  the  feet  of  the  winds  are  free; 

From  the  sun  and  smiles  of  the  coral  isles 
To  the  ice  of  the  South  and  North, 

With  dauntless  tread  through  tempests  dread 
The  guardian  ships  go  forth. 

What  is  the  white  on  our  flag,  boys? 

The  honor  of  our  land. 

Which  burns  in  our  sight  like  a beacon  fight 
And  stands  while  the  hills  shall  stand; 


108 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Yea,  dearer  than  fame  is  our  land’s  great  name, 
And  we  fight,  wherever  we  be, 

For  the  mothers  and  wives  that  pray  for  the  lives 
Of  the  brave  hearts  over  the  sea. 

What  is  the  red  on  our  flag,  boys? 

The  blood  of  our  heroes  slain 
On  the  burning  sands  in  the  wild  waste  lands 
And  the  froth  of  the  purple  main. 

And  it  cries  to  God  from  the  crimsoned  sod 
And  the  crest  of  the  waves  outrolled, 

That  He  send  us  men  to  fight  again 
As  our  fathers  fought  of  old. 

We’ll  stand  by  the  dear  old  flag,  boys, 

Whatever  be  said  or  done, 

Though  the  shots  come  fast,  as  we  face  the  blast 
And  the  foe  be  ten  to  one; — 

Though  our  only  reward  be  the  thrust  of  a sword 
And  a bullet  in  heart  or  brain, 

What  matters  one  gone,  if  the  flag  float  on 
And  Britain  be  lord  of  the  main. 

Frederick  George  Scott,  “Canadian  Overseas  Force” 


TO  BERLIN 

There’s  “a  little,  contemptible  army,” 

Can  crawl  to  a tune  that’s  true, 

And  it’s  crawling,  crawling,  crawling 
To  Potsdam  to  settle  with  you. 

It’s  busy  to-day  with  pudding, 

For  this  is  a Briton’s  fare; 

But  it’s  left  you  the  turkey  to  gobble, 

If  you’re  keen  on  a good  nightmare! 

So  here’s  to  a Merry  Christmas, 

To  the  Allies  on  land  and  sea, 

And  the  blackest  of  days  to  Billy, 

The  peace-breaking  bully,  from  me. 

W.  Davenport,  46  Swan  Street,  Congleton.  In  “Cas- 
sell’s Saturday  Journal.” 


SONGS  OP  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


109 


THE  CONQUERING  SCOTS  WERE  THERE 

. The  German  arm  is  strong; 
The  German  foot  goes  seldom  back 
Where  armed  foemen  throng. 

But  never  had  they  faced  in  field 
So  stern  a charge  before, 

And  never  had  they  felt  the  sweep 
Of  Scotland’s  broad  claymore. 

Scarce  swifter  shoots  the  bolt  from  heaven 
Than  came  the  Scottish  band, 

Right  up  against  the  guarded  trench, 
And  o’er  it,  sword  in  hand. 

In  vain  their  leaders  forward  press — 
They  meet  the  deadly  brand! 

A dreary  spot  with  corpses  strewn, 

And  bayonets  glistening  round; 

A broken  bridge,  a stranded  boat, 

A bare  and  battered  mound; 

And  one  huge  watchfire’s  kindled  pile, 
That  sent  its  quivering  glare 
To  tell  the  leaders  of  the  host 
The  conquering  Scots  were  there! 

— William  Aytoun. 


THE  TRENCH=DIGGER’S  DREAM 

Fill  me  a cauldron,  shoreless  and  profound. 

A cistern  fathomless,  thereunder  light 
Such  furious  furnaces  as  would  confound 
And  rouse  to  ruddy  envy  Etna’s  might. 

From  this  unsounded  cistern  then  construct — 
With  such  gargantuan  plumbers  as  must  toil 
At  waterworks  in  Mars — an  aqueduct 

Along  whose  course  torrential  floods  may  boil. 

For  I should  like  a bath:  no  common  tub 
Will  satisfy  my  yearning.  You  at  home 
Lave  in  your  household  tanks  and  gently  rub 
Your  pinky  persons  in  a soapy  foam. 


110 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


But  think  what  such  ablutions  can  be  worth 
To  us  who  excavate  with  patriot  pick 
And  soldier  shovel  in  our  land’s  dear  earth 
And  bear  that  earth  upon  our  persons — thick? 

No — build  me  these  constructions,  as  portrayed; 

Divert  a boiling  river  to  my  bath, 

Where  I may  sport,  as  gay  sea-monsters  played 
Before  men’s  navies  churned  the  ocean-path. 

And  bring  me  many  hundredweights  of  soap, 
Loofahs  and  brushes  many,  sponges  more, 
That  with  great  labor  I at  last  may  hope 
To  turn  again  the  tint  I was  of  yore. 

You  must  not  bid  me  hurry:  many  moons 
You’ll  hear  me  thrashing  in  that  steamy  deep, 
Steeped  in  its  soapy  billows.  Then,  eftsoons, 
Parboiled  to  pink  perfection,  I shall  sleep. 

W.  K.  H. 


THE  SWORD’S  FATE 

Swords  they  were,  made  of  the  finest  of  steel, 

Keen  were  they — so  that  the  foeman  might  feel 
Pain  of  the  sharpest — with  death  standing  near — 
Terror,  and  horror,  and  torture,  and  fear. 

Swords  they  were — bright  with  a silver-blue  light, 
Cold  as  the  moonlight  on  ice  in  the  night, 
Merciless — hewing  at  flesh  and  at  bone, 

Killing  in  thousands — or  killing  alone. 

Swords  they  were — then  in  a moment  of  peace, 
Men  laid  them  down  for  a bit  of  release 
From  all  the  fighting — and  they  were  alone, 

Dull  and  forgotten  as  fragments  of  stone. 

Swords  they  were,  but  in  the  fire’s  red  heat 
They  for  the  first  time  have  suffered  defeat, 
Poured  into  molds  by  a calm-loving  race; 

They  have  come  out  with  a plow’s  noble  grace. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


111 


Oh  that  the  swords  of  the  nations  might  be 
Melted  in  fires,  that  over  the  sea 
Victors  might  say  of  their  blood-reddened  spoil; 
“Swords  they  were — now  they  are  tilling  the  soil!” 

— Margaret  E.  Sangster,  Jr.,  in  “The  Christian 
Herald.” 


TO  THE  HEROES  OF  THE  NORTHERN  SEA. 

We  sleep,  but  ye  awake  that  we  may  sleep 
There  by  your  guns  each  gallant-hearted  tar, 

You  out-watch  sun  and  greet  the  morning  star 
Where  the  leviathans  in  prison  keep 
Their  pent-up  hate,  where  foemen  craft  out-creep 
Beneath  the  wave  to  launch  their  bolts  from  far, 
While,  charged  with  Death,  swift  wings  and  giant  car 
Hover  above  you  as  they  seaward  sweep. 

Watch  on,  ye  sleepless  heroes,  great  our  need 
Greater  our  thanks  bold  breakers  of  a yoke 
That  Nelson  broke  to  set  all  Europe  free, 

True  sons  of  that  unconquerable  seed 
Who  watched  at  Cadiz  till  the  morn  awoke 
Which  gave  our  Britain  Empire  of  the  sea. 

H.  D.  Rawnsley,  in  the  “Westminster  Gazette.” 


MAGNARD. 


[Alberic  Magnard,  the  eminent  French  composer,  was  killed  by  German 
troops  in  the  garden  of  his  chateau  near  C9mpiegne,  while  defending  his  home- 
His  largest,  most  characteristic  and  most  important  work  was  “Berenice,"  a 
music-drama  that  told  of  the  love  of  this  Syrian  queen  and  Titus,  emperor  of 
Rome.  Racine  wrought  the  same  story  into  one  of  his  tragedies.J 


This  one,  who  stood  rebellant  toward  all  treason’s  guild, 
And  held  the  muse  more  holy  than  the  Valkyrs’  touch, 
Was  called  to  shield  his  art  against  barbarian  clutch 
And  comes  by  this  to  die,  defending  home  and  field. 

A death  that’s  filled  with  brilliance,  judgment,  artistry! 
It  is  the  perfect  symmetry  of  work  and  fate! 

It  lifts  him  high,  as  he  wrought  deep,  for  land  and  state! 
It  sets  him  in  the  bounds  of  proudest  poetry! 


112 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Two  shadows  come  to  him  to  speak  of  Berenice; 

This  hero  brings  their  rivalry  to  full  decrease. 

Build  him  a tomb  from  stones  now  on  his  threshold 
piled, 

And  lay  him  ’neath  his  well-loved  soil  in  sweet  repose, 
This  Son  of  France,  who  pride  and  duty  reconciled, 
Sang  like  Racine,  and  died  like  Corneille  at  the  close. 

Arthur  L.  Carnahan. 


WHICH? 


[Madame  de  Castelnau’s  husband  and  three  sons  were  at  the  frontier;  the 
village  cure,  charged  to  break  to  her  the  neus  of  the  death  of  her  eldest  son  in 
battle,  had  not  had  time  to  apprise  her  when  she,  going  to  early  morning  mass, 
noticed  his  trembling  hand,  and  divining  that  he  had  ill  tidings  for  her,  asked 
him  in  a whisper,  “Which?”J 

Her  sons  went  forth  to  battle  in  the  glory  of  their 
youth — 

Her  husband  in  the  splendor  of  his  prime — 

And  she  gave  her  loved  ones  freely  with  neither  fret 
nor  ruth, 

For  the  Calvary  her  bleeding  feet  must  climb. 

From  her  chateau  on  the  vine-crowned  hills  she  passed 
each  day  to  prayer, 

A gracious  woman,  surely  bringing  balm 
To  the  breaking  hearts  around  her,  and  the  peasant 
mothers  there 

In  the  village  gazed,  and  gathered  of  her  calm. 

In  work  and  prayer  the  days  went  by — those  days  of 
dread  suspense, 

With  work  she  strove  their  tedium  to  beguile, 
Those  looking  on  her  wondered,  for  although  her  eyes 
were  tense 

No  change  e’er  dulled  the  sweetness  of  her  smile. 

But  as  one  morn  the  holy  cup  the  priest  brought  as  she 
knelt 

’Micl  sculptured  saints  in  every  sacred  niche, 

She  saw  his  old  hand  tremble,  and  the  coming  doom 
she  felt, 

Pale  looked  at  him,  and  simply  murmured,  “Which?” 
Algiers.  Mary  M.  Churchod. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


113 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIER. 

Loud  and  long  the  crowd  are  cheering,  as  with  colors 
flying  high, 

We  are  marching  to  the  beating  of  the  drums; 

Death  and  glory  lie  before  us — well,  we’re  Britishers, 
says  I, 

And  we’re  ready  when  the  call  to  duty  comes. 

Chorus. 

Down  with  Germans  and  with  Kaiser;  up  with  liberty 
and  right. 

Oh,  Great  William  will  be  wiser  when  we  teach  him 
Britain’s  might. 

’Mid  the  bullets  and  the  cannon  we  will  show  a steady 
front ; 

Let  them  tear  and  smoke  and  thunder  as  they  can. 

With  a strong  and  steadfast  courage,  we  will  bear  the 
battle’s  brunt, 

And  do  our  duty  bravely  every  man. 

For  our  sweethearts,  wives,  and  children,  we  have 
neither  fear  nor  care; 

Our  little  isle  is  safe  as  safe  can  be; 

Our  gallant  territorials,  watching,  guard  it  everywhere 

And  Great  Britain’s  queen,  as  ever,  of  the  sea. 

So  March!  March  on  to  glory  and  to  victory,  says  I; 

On  the  Ocean  and  on  every  battlefield, 

VFe  will  chase  them,  we  will  beat  them,  and  we  never 
will  say  die — 

We  Britishers  will  never,  never  yielded. 

Algiers.  Mary  M.  Churchod. 


THE  ZEPPELIN. 

Translated  from  the  German  by  Arthur  L.  Salmon 
in  The  Academy,  London. 

The  day  is  done. 

In  the  gray  twilight 
Still  stands  one  fort 
That  will  not  be  silenced. 


114 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


The  wind  awakes, 

The  vapors  roll  aside; 

From  the  clouds 
Appears  a Zeppelin. 

Its  steel-gray 

Turns  crimson  in  the  sunset. 

In  its  blood-red  envelope 
Destroying  death  draws  nigh. 

A swarm  of  bullets 
Hums  towards  it. 

It  quivers  and  lays  its  course 
To  the  forts. 

Now  it  descends, 

Grown  suddenly  to  huge  size, 

And  deals  the  death-blow 
To  its  victims. 

A star  peeps  forth— 

The  summer  night  steals  on; 

The  last  of  all  the  forts 
Is  silent. 

THE  CAMP  IN  THE  SANDS. 

Down  in  the  hollow  of  the  dunes  one  night 
We  made  our  bivouac;  serene  and  bright 
The  autumn  day  drew  to  its  early  close. 

While  still  the  west  was  red  the  moon  arose 
And  flung  the  witchery  of  her  silver  lamp 
Over  the  bustle  of  our  hasty  camp. 

Beyond  the  crested  dunes  the  windy  sea 
Murmured  all  night,  now  near,  now  distantly. 
And  eerily  round  us  we  could  hark 
The  grass’s  widespread  whisper  in  the  dark, 
As  if  the  Little  People  of  the  Sands 
Gathered  about  us  in  their  stealthy  bands. 

% % sfc  Jfc  * 

Within  the  dip  where  our  encampment  lay 
The  lines  of  weary  horses  munched  their  hay 
Or  pawed  the  sand  with  quick,  uneasy  hoof; 

A glowing  cook-fire  flickered  red  aloof, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


115 


From  which  a drift  of  soft  blue  smoke  was  blown: 
The  loudest  voice  soon  sank  to  undertone 
Amidst  the  empty  space  ’twixt  sand  and  sky, 

Ruled  by  the  moon  that  rose  so  splendidly. 

ifc 

All  night,  around  the  camp  our  watch  we  kept, 

Posted  on  crests  of  sandy  billows;  swept 
From  eve  till  dawn  by  the  unbroken  wind, 

Our  eyes  towards  the  dark;  our  camp  behind. 

W.  K.  H. 


NOT  GERMANY. 

(Theodore  C.  Williams  in  “Life.”) 

Who  first  put  steam  to  ship  and  car 
And  conquered  space  on  land  and  sea? 
Who  cabled  thought  through  oceans  far? 
Not  Germany. 

Who  first  trapped  microbes  under  glass, 
Man’s  ambushed,  deadliest  enemy, 

And  bade  foul  plagues  forever  pass? 

Not  Germany. 

Who  from  Daguerre  his  fame  can  steal? 

Who  finished  for  the  world  to  see 
“La  bicyclette,”  “1’automobile?” 

Not  Germany. 

Who  set  the  wheel  where  women  spun 
To  million-fold  machinery? 

And  what  proud  land  bore  Edison? 

Not  Germany. 

Who  laid  on  pain  deep  sleep  and  dark 
To  still  life’s  utmost  agony! 

Who  flashed  world-o’er  the  wireless  spark? 
Not  Germany. 

Who  first  like  eagle  rode  the  air, 
Columbus  of  that  vaster  sea? 

Who  first  to  earth’s  twin  poles  did  fare? 
Not  Germany. 


116 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


But  higher  yet  what  lands  display 
Darwin’s  supreme  discovery, 

The  Curries,  Lyell,  Faraday? 

Not  Germany. 

Who  broke  th’  hereditary  throne 
Of  kings,  and  set  great  peoples  free? 

What  land  today  is  Freedom’s  own? 

Not  Germany. 

Go,  Teuton  boaster!  Humbly  scan 

What  gifts  thy  peers  have  heaped  on  thee. 
Art’s  triumphs  were  achieved  by  Man — 
Not  Germany. 


THE  ARMY  COOKS’  COMPLAINT. 

We  don’t  go  much  for  looks, 

Do  us  regimental  cooks, 

An’  our  cooking  ain’t  so  toney  as  the  Carlton  or  the  Ritz 
But  we  don’t  need  no  excuse, 

For  we  cooked  the  Proosian  goose 
In  a manner  that  ’ud  give  all  other  cooks  in  Europe  fits. 

It  were  just  down  Wipers  way — 

We  was  basting  the  ongtray 
An’  preparing  smokeless  cawfee,  and  inventing  new 
hors  d’oeuvres, 

When  the  Capting,  in  he  stalks, 

An’  he  shouted,  “Cooks,  down  forks! 

The  Germs  ’ave  rushed  our  trenches,  and  we  ain’t  got 
no  reserves.” 

Then  he  gave  us  guns  an’  shot, 

And  we  made  the  fire  hot, 

An’  we  made  them  Proosians  mutton,  and  we  served 
them  with  cayenne. 

’Twas  a spell  of  pure  delight, 

Till  we  put  ’em  all  to  flight 

Then  we  went  back  cooking  dinners  for  our  ’ungry 
soldiermen. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


117 


Did  they  cheer  us?  No!  By  James, 

They  just  called  us  all  the  names 
They  could  lay  to,  trimmed  with  langwidge  that  our 
troops  in  Flanders  learnt. 

Just  because  (’twas  mortal  hard) 

While  we  whacked  the  Proosian  Guard 
We  ’ad  let  the  ongtray  frizzle  and  the  taters  all  get 
burnt. 

C.  W.  C.,  in  London  "Opinion.” 


SCOTTISH  FOOTBALL  HEROES! 

In  a Sarcastic  Vein. 

Some  sing  of  French  and  Joffre  and  some  of  Jellicoe, 
And  some  of  those  who  offer  to  fight  against  their  foe, 
But  of  all  your  khaki  heroes  there’s  none  that  can  com- 
pare 

With  the  Rangers,  Celts,  Hibs,  Clyde,  or  Queen’s  or 
Aberdeen  or  Ayr. 

Then  here’s  to  the  gallant  army, 

With  the  fearless  Hearts  at  their  head, 

Who  will  play  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  breath, 
Though  the  rest  of  the  land  lie  dead; 

Then  here’s  to  the  gallant  army, 

In  which  no  heroes  fall, 

Who  will  play  to  the  very  gates  of  Hell 
With  a ten  and  sixpenny  ball. 

There’s  some  fools  fight  for  glory,  and  some  to  keep  us 
free, 

And  some  for  love  of  country — but,  you  bet,  that’s  not 
me. 

For  Kaiser  Bill  may  whack  us,  and  devil  the  bit  I care, 
If  he’ll  only  let  the  League  go  on  from  Aberdeen  to  Ayr. 

Then  here’s  to  the  pick  of  the  nation, 

To  Paisley  and  Dundee, 

For  so  long  as  the  good  old  game’s  to  the  front. 

Then  the  Front  will  not  see  me; 

And  here’s  to  the  flower  of  our  athletes, 

For  ever  crowned  with  fame, 

Who  faithfully  stood  by  the  Scottish  League 
And  gave  us  our  weekly  game. 


118 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


I read  a silly  letter  from  a chap  that’s  at  the  front, 

Who  said  that  while  the  war  was  on  the  game  should 
get  the  shunt. 

My  gosh,  I thought  him  nervy- — and  the  beggar  getting 
paid— 

Why,  what  the  deuce  are  we  to  do  if  football  isn’t 
played? 

(Chorus — from  France.) 

“You  could  come  yourself  to  the  Army, 

Don’t  you  hear  the  bugle  and  the  drum! 

You  could  come  yourself  to  the  Army, 

And  we  can’t  win  till  you  come.” 

“Come  myself  to  the  Army; 

Well,  here’s  an  offer  to  you; 

Let  the  Scottish  League  chuck  up  the  game 
And  join — then  I’ll  join  too.” 

R.  B.,  in  “The  Glasgow  Herald.” 


THE  LONDON  SCOTTISH  AT  MESSINES 

Sons  of  the  land  of  the  hills  and  the  valleys, 

Garbed  in  the  kilt  that  your  forefathers  wore, 

Blood  of  the  men  who  with  Bruce  and  with  Wallace 
In  the  forefront  of  battle  the  Red  Lion  bore, 
Glorious  your  deeds  even  as  those  of  your  fathers, 
Resistless  like  them  in  the  wild  battle  fray, 

Bolder  and  stouter  the  more  the  foe  gathers. 

Honor  the  lads  clad  in  Scots  hodden-grey! 

Proud  is  the  Old  Land — the  land  yours  by  blood-right, 
Though  from  her  hills  you  have  wandered  afar— 
Proud  is  the  Empire  at  your  prowess  and  battlemight; 

No  deed  of  dishonor  your  ’scutcheon  doth  mar. 

Yet  why  tell  your  praises  in  song  or  in  story? 

We  knew  you  would  fight  as  you  fought  on  that  day; 
You’d  not  have  been  Scots  had  a German  blade  gory 
Pierced  the  back  of  a lad  clad  in  Scots  hodden-grey. 

Ages  shall  never  diminish  the  glory 

Of  the  deeds  you  have  written  on  history’s  page, 

For  sire  unto  son  will  pass  on  the  story 

And  tell  of  the  wild  dashing  charges  you  made; 


SONGS  OF  THE  GRFAT  WORLD  WAR 


119 


Shades  of  the  dead  from  far  Bannock  and  Flodden, 
Hovering  above  you  expectant  that  day, 

Joyed  that  a courage  as  yet  ne’er  downtrodden 
Lived  still  in  the  lads  clad  in  Scots  hodden-grey. 

W.  M.  COCKBTJRN. 

THE  INVINCIBLE  ARMADA 

Translation  from  Schiller 

Showing  what  a great  and  true-hearted  German  Poet  thought  of  Great 
Britain  in  those  days,  as  compared  with  the  vituperation  by  the  Germans  of 
today.  Let  us  hope  it  is  also  prophetic  of  the  present  struggle. 

What  means  this  vast  expanse  of  sail  outspread? 
What  mean  these  thunders  ominous  and  dread? 

On  startled  Neptune’s  wave  what  shapes  loom  nigh, 
Towering  like  citadels  athwart  the  sky? 

Never  before 
Old  Ocean  bore 

Such  dreadful  load  as  these  great  forts  afloat, 

Belching  out  death  from  every  iron  throat. 

“Invincible”  the  boast 
Of  this  portentous  host, 

That,  like  impending  Fate,  draws  slowly  near 
O’er  unresisting  waves  that  shudder  as  in  fear. 

And  nearer  every  breath  the  sail  that  swells 
Brings  it  to  thee,  fair  Isle,  where  Freedom  dwells; 
Great-hearted  Britain,  Mistress  of  the  Sea, 

This  storm-cloud  lowers  and  would  break  o’er  thee! — 
How  cam’st  thou  thus  to  be 
The  home-land  of  the  free? 

How  didst  thou  gain  this  jewel  that  thou  wear’st, 

The  birthright  now  of  every  son  thou  bear’st? — 

Did  not  of  old  thy  sovereign’s  people’s  might 
Wrest  from  proud  kings  the  Charter  of  thy  right? 

The  sceptre  of  the  sea, 

Was  it  not  won  for  thee 

By  many  a gallant  deed  in  many  a hard-won  fight? — 
Blush,  nations  of  the  earth,  the  palm  award 
To  Britain’s  spirit  and  to  Britain’s  sword! 

But  tremble  now,  fair  land,  this  Titan-host, 

Breathing  out  fire  and  slaughter,  nears  thy  coast. 

The  nations  of  the  earth  look  on  aghast; 

Brave  hearts  and  free 
Tremble  to  see 

The  greatness  of  thy  fall,  remembering  thy  past. 


120 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Then  looked  down  God  Almighty  from  His  throne, 
Saw  the  dire  peril  that  assailed  His  own, 

Saw  the  proud  foe  draw  nigh 
With  banners  flaunting  high. 

Thus  spake  He:  Can  I see  My  Albion  fall? — 

That  hero-race,  which  ever 
Stood,  a firm  barrier  ’gainst  oppression’s  tide, 

And  dared  to  face  the  tyrant  in  his  pride? — 

Shall  that  dear  home  of  freedom,  where 
A man  to  be  a man  doth  dare, 

Vanish  and  fall  from  off  this  earthly  ball? 

Thus  spake  He:  Never! 

Then  stooped  the  Lord  Almighty  and  breathed  upon 
the  seas. 

And  that  great  fleet  was  scattered  like  chaff  upon  the 
breeze. 

From  “London  Observer.” 


PLAYING  THE  GAME 

R.  T.t  a Kilmarnock  poet,  grasps  his  harp  and  twangs  out  an  ironic  volley 
of  shrapnel  as  follows: — 

“A  British  reverse,”  that’s  nothing  at  all, 

Go  on  with  the  game,  pass  forward  the  ball; 

Pass  up  the  centre  and  keep  the  ball  low. 

Steady  now,  steady,  shoot,  goal,  a goal — o-oh! 

“The  British  hard  pressed,”  ah!  well,  nevermind, 
A goal’s  a safe  lead  when  facing  the  wind. 

Play  up  like  Trojans,  keep  swinging  the  ball, 
There’s  pluck  in  a charge,  and  fun  in  a fall. 

“British  outnumber’d  and  forced  to  retreat.” 
What  about  that  when  the  ball’s  at  your  feet. 
Tip  it  and  toy  with  it,  drive  it  and  run, 

Chasing  the  leather  instead  of  the  Hun. 


TWO  SONNETS 

He  has  gone  forth  and  fought  his  last  great  fight 
Against  grim  Death,  the  conqueror  of  all; 
Undaunted  courage  and  a heart  aright 
Availed  him  not.  Ah!  bitter  was  his  fall. 

His  golden  spurs  by  feats  of  valor  won, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


121 


Once  proudly  worn,  ere  long  will  playthings  be, 
And  his  true  sword  that  doughty  deeds  has  done 
Will  burn  with  rust,  and  idle  eyes  will  see. 

Oh  what  an  ending  for  a worth  so  great, 

To  be  the  spoil  of  dull  debasing  clay; 

At  noon  full  plumed  to  thunder  at  fame’s  gate, 

At  eve  disarmed,  to  stumble  by  the  way. 

Yet  this  he’s  gained,  despite  untimely  doom, 

The  love  of  men,  no  conquest  can  entomb. 

Long  years  will  spread  their  mosses  where  he  lies, 
And  level  out  the  mound  above  his  breast; 
Tempests  will  rage  from  surly  winter  skies, 

But  ne’er  disturb  the  quiet  of  his  rest. 

The  pearly  light  that  lifts  the  lark  to  sing, 

The  amber  cloud  that  bids  the  day  adieu, 

And  all  the  pageantry  and  sweet  o’  Spring, 

Will  stir  him  not  who  shelters  ’neath  the  yew. 

He  gave  his  powers  to  speed  a goodly  cause, 
Knew  nought  of  fear  when  dangers  did  increase, 
Sought  no  reward,  nor  hungered  for  applause, 
And,  dying  thus,  received  the  balm  of  peace. 

One  hero  more  in  him  does  Death  possess, 

But  we  who  mourn,  alas,  one  hero  less. 

J.  Donald. 

POEM  BY  A WOUNDED  “TOMMY” 

IN  STOBHILL  HOSPITAL 

The  peace  of  the  world  is  broken, 

The  nations  are  at  it  again; 

And  we  must  take  part  in  the  fighting, 

Which  causes  such  sorrow  and  pain. 

We’ll  fight  for  the  love  of  our  country, 

We’ll  fight  for  our  honor  and  name, 

And  we’ll  never  rest  contented 
’Till  Germany’s  subdued  again. 

We  may  have  a very  small  army 
With  which  our  foes  to  defeat, 

But  British  pluck  and  bravery 
Will  make  of  them  “sausage  meat.” 


122 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


They  torture  women  and  children, 

They  wreck  many  happy  homes; 

But  the  day  of  reckoning  is  coming, 

For  we’ll  suck  them  dry  to  the  bones. 

We’ll  teach  them  a very  hard  lesson, 

A lesson  they’ll  never  forget; 

We’ll  crush  them  once  and  for  ever, 

For  their  sun  has  risen  and  set. 

M.  S.  G. 

THE  BATTLE  CHRISTMAS 

There  are  columns  to  be  riven 
In  the  very  face  of  hell, 

And  the  wild  dumb  beasts  are  driven 
To  their  doom  of  shot  and  shell. 

But  above  the  shriek  of  battle 
And  the  chargers’  dying  woe 
Sounds  the  lowing  of  the  cattle 
In  a manger  long  ago. 

There  is  midnight  on  the  nations, 

There  is  hate  instead  of  love, 

And  the  guns’  reverberations 
Shake  the  vaulted  skies  above. 

But  beyond  the  thunders  ringing 
As  the  foe  replies  to  foe 
We  can  hear  the  angels  singing 
On  a midnight  long  ago. 

McLandburgh  Wilson. 

THE  IMPERIALISM  OF  IDEAS 

"The  next  great  war  shall  be  against  conditions  and  not  men." 

Our  visions  are  the  boundaries  of  our  fate, 

Within  whose  magic  circle  we  may  sleep, 

But  dreams  are  only  dreams,  and,  soon  or  late, 

The  thought  must  turn  to  action,  small  or  great, 
Would  we  those  boundaries  win  or  visions  keep. 

The  clang  of  arms  which  rang  in  days  of  old, 
Resounding  still  within  the  minds  of  men, 

Awakes  the  spirit  of  the  warrior  bold 
Which  occupies  our  heart  when  tales  are  told 
That  bring  the  hero-lives  to  earth  again. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


123 


Though  blood  still  flows  in  streams  for  some  great  cause, 
Inflamed  by  national  pride  and  racial  hate, 

The  time  shall  come  when  our  most  glorious  wars 
Shall  be  against  conditions,  and  our  laws 
Redeem  the  time  and  bless  the  growing  state. 

And  if  our  fate  should  be  to  win  no  prize, 

To  fall  while  still  the  vision  leads  us  on, 

Rewards  and  triumphs  fading  from  our  eyes, 

Beyond  our  grasp,  while  envy’s  tongue  decries 
The  victories  which  we  have  hardly  won; 

More  than  the  goal  we  sought  but  failed  to  gain, 

More  than  the  high-prized  glory  and  renown, 

A noble  life,  our  nation’s  grander  name, 

Shall  be  full  recompense  for  toil  and  pain 
As  manly  worth  outweighs  a kingly  crown. 

We  mourn  the  comrades  lost,  the  leaders  slain, 

The  many  thousands  who  have  bravely  died, 

But  as  their  visions  live  and  we  maintain 
Their  faithful  efforts,  nought  has  been  in  vain, 

For  death  itself  shall  fight  upon  our  side. 

“Christian  Register”  William  Ware  Locke 

YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

Ye  mariners  of  England, 

That  guard  our  native  seas; 

Whose  flag  has  braved  a thousand  years, 
The  battle  and  the  breeze! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  match  another  foe, 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 
Shall  yet  terrific  burn, 

Till  danger’s  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 


124 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

— T.  Campbell. 


THE  TOY  BAND 

A Song  of  the  Great  Retreat 

Dreary  lay  the  long  road,  dreary  lay  the  town, 

Lights  out  and  never  a glint  o'  moon; 

Weary  lay  the  stragglers,  half  a thousand  down, 

Sad  sighed  the  weary  big  Dragoon. 

"Oh!  if  I’d  a drum  here  to  make  them  take  the  road 
again, 

Oh!  if  I’d  a fife  to  wheedle,  Come,  boys,  come! 

You  that  mean  to  fight  it  out,  wake  and  take  your  load 
again, 

Fall  in!  Fall  in!  Follow  the  fife  and  drum! 

"Hey,  but  here’s  a toy  shop,  here’s  a drum  for  me, 
Penny  whistles  too  to  play  the  tune! 

Half  a thousand  dead  men  soon  shall  hear  and  see 
We’re  a band!”  said  the  weary  big  Dragoon. 
“Rubadub!  Rubadub!  Wake  and  take  the  road  again, 
Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee,  Come,  boys,  come! 
You  that  mean  to  fight  it  out,  wake  and  take  your  load 
again, 

Fall  in!  Fall  in!  Follow  the  fife  and  drum!” 

Cheerly  goes  the  dark  road,  cheerly  goes  the  night, 
Cheerly  goes  the  blood  to  keep  the  beat; 

Half  a thousand  dead  men  marching  on  to  fight 
With  a little  penny  drum  to  lift  their  feet. 

Rubadub!  Rubadub!  Wake  and  take  the  road  again, 
Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee,  Come,  boys,  come! 

You  that  mean  to  fight  it  out,  wake  and  take  your  load 
again, 

Fall  in!  Fall  in!  Follow  the  fife  and  drum! 

As  long  as  there’s  an  Englishman  to  ask  a tale  of  me, 

As  long  as  I can  tell  the  tale  aright, 

We’ll  not  forget  the  penny  whistle’s  wheedle-deedle-dee 
And  the  big  Dragoon  a beating  down  the  night. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


125 


Rubadub!  Rubadub!  Wake  and  take  the  road  again, 
Wheed!e-deedle-deedle-dee.  Come,  boys,  come! 
You  that  mean  to  fight  it  out,  wake  and  take  your  load 
again, 

Fall  in!  Fall  in!  Follow  the  fife  and  drum! 

— Henry  Newbolt,  in  “London  Times.” 


THE  GORDON  HIGHLANDERS 

No  Scottish  regiment  can  claim  any  more  glorious  traditions  than  that  of 
“the  Gay  Gordons,”  raised  over  a century  ago  by  the  beautiful  Duchess  of 
Gordon.  In  this  war,  the  Gordon  Highlanders,  by  their  deeds  of  gallantry, 
have  added  to  the  laurels  of  Scottish  s^diery.  This  song  depicts  the  raising 
of  the  regiment  and  the  charm  of  a beautiful  woman  over  the  brave  Highlanders. 

The  French  upon  Holland  are  marching, 
Marching  wi’  sword  and  wi’  flame; 

“Now,  wha’”,  cries  King  Geordie,  “will  aid  me, 
In  driving  the  saucy  loons  hame?” 

Then  up  spoke  the  Duchess  o’  Gordon, 

And  bright  grew  her  bonny  blue  e’e, 

“At  hame,  ’mang  my  kin  in  the  Hielands, 

Are  lads  will  take  bounty  frae  me.” 

Wearing  the  tartan  plaid, 

Bonnet  and  feather  sae  braw, 

The  round-hilted  Scottish  broad  blade, 
The  kilt,  the  sporran  an’  a’. 

A banner  o’  silk  she  has  broidered, 

Wi’  her  ain  fair  lily-white  hands, 

An’  wi’  its  folds  waving  aboon  her, 

She  rides  through  the  Gordon’s  broad  lands; 
And  bunches  of  ribbons  she  carries, 

Of  colors  the  Gordons  aye  wore; 

While  stepping  in  time  to  the  pibroch, 

The  pipers  gae  sounding  before. 

Wearing  the  tartan  plaid,  etc. 

A lad  frae  the  hills  cries,  “I’m  ready 
To  gang  whaur  Your  Grace  may  command.  ” 

A ribbon  she  ties  on  his  bonnet, 

A shilling  she  slips  in  his  hand; 

And  bending  her  down  frae  the  saddle, 

She  presses  her  rosy  wee  mou’ 

To  his  cheek,  that  grows  red  as  the  heather: — 
Oh!  fast  come  the  Hielandmen  noo. 

Wearing  the  tartan  plaid,  etc. 


126 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


They  come  from  the  Braes  of  Lochaber, 

From  Badenoch’s  passes  they  come; 

The  deer  in  the  forest  of  Athol 

Unscared  and  unhunted  may  roam; 

They  come  from  the  Craigs  o’  Kinrara, 

They  come  from  the  links  of  the  Spey, 

They  come  from  the  banks  of  the  Garry, 

The  Tummel,  the  Tile  and  the  Tay. 

Wearing  the  tartan  plaid,  etc. 

Then  up  spoke  the  Duchess  of  Gordon — 

And  the  din  of  the  gathering  was  still, 

And  sweet  rang  her  voice  as  the  merlin’s 
When  gloaming  lies  hushed  on  the  hill — 
“When  first  I uplifted  my  banner, 

The  leaves  were  green  on  the  trees, 

Nae  a’  leaf  yet  has  fa’en,  and  aroun’  me 
A thousand  brave  clansmen  I see.” 

Wearing  the  tartan  plaid,  etc. 

“Now  take  you  the  banner  Lord  Huntly, 

Of  me  no  mother  shall  say, 

I keep  my  ain  son  from  the  peril 
While  her’s  I am  wiling  away; 

And  when  in  the  land  of  the  stranger, 

And  fronting  the  foeman  ye  be, 

Braw  Gordons,  look  then  on  the  banner, 

And  think  o’  Auld  Scotland  and  me.” 

Then,  hey!  for  the  tartan  plaid,  etc. 

An’  gin  the  fair  Duchess  could  see  us, 

Assembled  together  tonight, 

When  Gordons  and  Greys  are  foregathered, 

Wi’  auld  recollections  sae  bright, 

It’s  hersel’  would  be  prood  o’  the  gathering, 

And  she’d  say  in  her  accents  sae  smoo’, 

“My  bonnie  braw  laddies,  come  to  me, 

I’ll  kiss  ye  each  one  on  the  mou’,” 

Then  hey!  for  the  Gordon  plaid, 

The  bonnet  and  feather  sae  braw 
Three  cheers  for  our  Waterloo  fren’s, 
Field-Marshal  Strathnairn  an’  them  a’. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


127 


AUSTRALIANS  TO  THE  FRONT 


(Song  in  commemoration  of  the  Australian  Contingent  sent  to  the  Soudan, 

modernized,  and  equally  appropriate  to  those  who  are  now  fighting  in  Egypt. 

It  was  the  Australian  Cruiser.  Sydney,  which  gallantly  fought  and  sank  the 

fearless  Emden  which  did  such  damage  to  British  shipping  in  the  Indian  Ocean. 

All  hail  to  the  heroes  of  tropical  Britain, 

The  stout-hearted  kin  of  old  Albion’s  isle! 

Who  stand  to  their  guns  when  her  enemies  threaten, 
To  stir  her  war  spirit — wellknown  by  the  Nile. 

Tho’  wide  roll  the  waves  that  divide  us  asunder, 

Our  bosoms  are  British, — one  family  are  we; 

And  woe  to  the  foe  that  would  trample  or  plunder 
Our  heritage,— freedom  and  power  to  make  free. 

Then  hurrah  for  our  sons  of  the  sunny  Pacific, 
Who  step  with  Britannia  in  peace  and  in  war. 

We  tempt  not  the  war-trail,  but  wild  and  terrific 
Are  the  slogan  and  charge  of  the  kilt  and  hussar. 

Strike  a song  to  the  transplanted  oaks  of  Old  England, 
That  bloom  by  Murrambidgee’s  blue-belted  strand, 

The  sons  of  our  brave  sires  who  faithfully  cling  and 
Shall  follow  and  fight  for  their  loved  Fatherland. 

Australia  is  fresh  in  the  youth  of  her  greatness, 

And  Britain  is  strong  in  her  prowess  of  old; 

Let  our  enemies  pause — in  the  past  they  have  witness 
Of  what  we  can  do  when  our  flag  we  unfold. 

High  hope  to  the  Austral,  the  Celt,  and  the  Saxon, 
The  sun  never  sets  on  our  regal  domains; 

Our  flag  waves  in  peace  o’er  the  lovely  Port  Jackson 
Our  pibroch  swells  proudly  on  India’s  plains. 

Do  the  German-Austrians  break  peace  with  a nation 
In  valor  well-tried  and  in  arms  well-trained! 

If  the  Lion  is  couchant,  yet  much  provocation 

Shall  show  his  leap  dreadful  when  roused  and  un- 
chained. 

The  Shamrock,  the  Rose  and  the  Thistle,  once  more, 
lads, 

We’ll  add  the  Acacian  flower  of  the  south; 

The  Jasmine  we’ll  place  in  the  midst  of  the  four,  lads, 
And  twine  a fresh  wreath  of  Victorian  growth. 

Our  country,  our  King,  and  her  senators  wise,  lads, 
Our  Army,  and  Navy  by  land  and  by  main. 

Our  Colonies  strong  in  their  federal  ties,  lads, 

We’ll  cheer  to  the  echo  again  and  again. 


128 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


BELGIUM’S  GLORY. 

The  sun  sets  fair  o’er  Belgium 
To  the  sound  of  the  Vesper’s  bell. 

And  the  evening  hymns  of  the  people 
Waft  him  a fond  farewell; 

The  peaceful  vales  and  homesteads 
He  bathes  in  a golden  light, 

As  a last  bequest  ere  he  leaves  them 
To  rest  through  the  silent  night. 

And  the  lingering  beams  cast  a halo 
Of  blissful  peace  and  rest 
O’er  the  mother  gently  crooning 
To  the  baby  at  her  breast. 

The  sun  sets  red  o’er  Belgium, 

But  the  Vesper  tolls  no  more, 

And  the  sounds  that  rise  from  the  stricken  land 
Are  the  red-mouthed  cannon’s  roar. 

The  sun  sets  red  o’er  Belgium, 

O’er  a ravished,  blood-drenched  plain, 

With  her  peaceful  sons  and  fathers 
Lying  dead  ’midst  the  ripening  grain. 

And  the  beams  seek  in  vain  for  the  mothers, 

For  the  homesteads  where  they  stood, 

There  is  naught  but  blackened  ruins, 

And  the  hearths  are  red  with  blood. 

The  night  descends  o’er  Belgium, 

But  it  holds  no  sacred  trust, 

But  a hell  of  unnamed  horrors 
Of  rapine,  blood  and  lust! 

And  surging  through  the  darkness 
Rise  the  sounds  of  carnage  wild — 

The  cries  of  the  childless  mother 

And  the  wails  of  the  motherless  child. 

While,  like  fiends  from  the  black  pit  breaking, 
Through  the  night  leaps  devouring  fire, 

And  the  smoke  pall  rises  heavenwards 
From  a nation’s  funeral  pyre. 

But  the  sun  shall  rise  o’er  Belgium 
In  a lasting  glorious  day, 

When  the  blood-red  night  and  its  powers  have  gone, 
And  all  tears  are  wiped  away; 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


129 


And  the  mothers  shall  tell  to  their  children 
Of  their  sires’  undying  fame — 

How  the  plighted  word  broke  the  tyrant’s  sword, 

And  how  swift  the  vengeance  came. 

And  for  ever  adown  the  ages, 

While  the  tide  of  Freedom  runs, 

The  nations  shall  stand  uncovered 
At  the  name  of  Belgium’s  sons. 

G.  S.,  in  “Glasgow  Record.” 

BELGIUM,  1914. 

Oh  meadows  of  the  Ardennes,  cowslip-strewn, 
Winter’s  last  snowflake,  spring’s  first  butterfly, 

Flickered  where  winds  were  censers,  and  the  moon 
Bloomed  like  an  Easter-lily  in  the  sky! 

Oh  city  like  a clear  grey  flower  enshrined 

By  dewy  woods;  the  changing  ways  of  you — 

The  sun-baked  walls  where  roses  trail  entwined, 
Bright  holly  in  the  frosty  avenue. 

Oh  tufted  dunes,  pallid  and  weather-worn, 

Vexed  as  the  borders  of  a haggard  dream, 

Twixt  twisted  trees  like  skeletons  forlorn, 

The  wet  blue  roads  to  Holland  glint  and  gleam. 

Oh  mellow  towns  of  Flanders,  great  in  years — 
Surely  your  guardian  angel  mourns  your  scars; 

Some  black-stoled  nun  of  universal  tears, 
Fingering  aloft  a rosary  of  stars. 

Blossom  and  spindrift,  forest,  ruddy  tile  . 

A double  scythe  this  dismal  autumn  wields; 

The  low  smoke  shudders,  mile  on  blackened  mile, 
War  gleans  a second  harvest  from  your  fields! 

J.  G.  S. 


BELGIUM’S  WRONGS 

MR.  ROOSEVELT  INSISTS  THAT  THEY  MUST  BE  REDRESSED 

Mr.  Roosevelt,  in  the  third  of  his  war  articles,  pub- 
lished in  the  “New  York  Times,”  says: — 

England’s  attitude  in  going  to  war,  in  defence  of 
Belgium’s  rights,  represents  the  only  kind  of  action  that 
will  ever  make  neutrality,  peace,  or  arbitration  trea- 
ties worth  the  paper  they  are  written  on. 


130 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Belgium  has  shown  heroism,  courage,  self-sacri- 
fice; and,  great  as  is  the  penalty,  the  ultimate  reward 
will  be  greater  still. 

When  the  time  for  settlement  comes,  Belgium’s 
case  will  stand  apart.  No  peace  should  be  made  until 
her  wrongs  have  been  redressed  and  the  likelihood  of  a 
repetition  of  such  wrongs  provided  against. 

“Glasgow  Daily  Record,”  Oct.  12,  1914. 

SONNET  ON  THE  BELGIUM  EXPATRIATION. 

By  Thomas  Hardy. 

This  s9nnet  was  contributed  by  the  famous  novelist  to  “ King  Albert’s  Book," 
a collection  of  tributes  in  poetry  and  prose  to  the  homeless  nation  of  Europe 
and  that  nation’s  King,  which  was  published  in  Great  Britain  in  December. 
The  sonnet  appeared  recently  in  the  Glasgow  "Herald." 

I dreamt  that  people  from  the  Land  of  Chimes 
Arrived  one  autumn  morning  with  their  bells 
To  hoist  them  on  the  towers  and  citadels 
Of  my  own  country,  that  their  musical  rhymes 
Rung  by  them  into  a space  at  measured  times 
Amid  the  market’s  daily  stir  and  stress 
And  the  night’s  empty,  starlit  silentness 
Might  solace  souls  of  this  and  kindred  climes. 

Then  I awoke:  and  lo,  before  me  stood 
The  visioned  ones,  but  pale  and  full  of  fear. 

From  Bruges  they  came,  and  Antwerp,  and  Ostend, 
No  caribous  in  their  train.  Vicissitude 
Had  left  these  tinkling  in  the  invaders’  ear, 

And  ravaged  street  and  smouldering  gable-end. 

NOT  THESE  I PITY. 

By  Margaret  Sackville  in  the  “ London  Times” 
Not  these  I pity 

Who  in  the  sweep  and  surge  of  battle  die 
With  passion  in  their  hearts,  but  these 
The  wrecks  and  ruins  of  the  city, 

These  million  souls  outcast,  they  know  not  why; 
Torn,  tempted,  outraged,  driven  overseas. 

For  these  what  price 

Shall  the  inexorable  laws  demand? 

Upon  their  heads  what  heavy  toll  is  set? 

Theirs  is  the  sorrow  and  the  sacrifice. 

Their  tears  have  watered  the  waste  lands. 

When  God  remembers,  who  shall  pay  the  debt? 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


131 


“THE  BLIND  MAN  AND  HIS  SON.” 

“The  distant  boom  of  angry  guns 
No  longer  fills  my  ear. 

Oh!  whither  have  we  fled,  my  son! 

Tell  me,  that  I may  hear.” 

“Father,  we  are  in  England!” 


“No  more  I hear  the  stormy  wind 
Amid  the  rigging  roar, 

I feel  beneath  my  tottering  feet 
The  firm  ground  of  the  shore, 

Is  this  the  end  of  all  our  woes? 

Shall  we  not  suffer  more?” 

“Father,  we  are  in  England!” 

“I  hear  the  sound  of  kindly  speech, 

But  do  not  understand, 

I feel  I’ve  wandered  very  far, 

Far  from  the  fatherland; 

How  comes  it  that  these  tones  are  not 
Those  of  an  unknown  land?” 

“Father,  we  are  in  England!” 

“I  feel  in  all  the  air  around 

Freedom’s  sweet  breath  respire, 

I feel  celestial  fingers  creep 
Along  my  quivering  lyre; 

The  birds,  the  trees,  the  babbling  streams 
Speak  to  me  of  our  home, 

Why  does  my  grief  less  bitter  grow 
And  rest  so  dear  become?” 

“Father,  we  are  in  England!” 

“Bend  down  upon  thy  knees,  my  son, 

And  take  into  thy  hand, 

Thy  wounded  hand,  and  mine,  somewhat 
Of  the  earth  of  this  good  land, 

That,  dreaming  of  our  home,  we  too 
May  kiss  the  Soil  of  England!” 
“London  Observer,”  Jan.  3,  1915. 


132 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


HARDY  APPEALS  IN  VERSE 
FOR  HUNGERED  7,000,000. 

The  following  poem  by  Thomas  Hardy  was  written  for  the  Commission  of 
Relief  in  Belgium  and  forwarded  by  the  poet  to  the  commission  at  71  Broad- 
way. It  was  issued  recently  as  an  appeal  to  America  on  behalf  of  the  Belgian 
destitute. 

Seven  millions  stand 
Emaciate,  in  that  ancient  Delta-land — 

We  here,  full-charged  with  our  maimed  and  dead, 
And  coiled  in  throbbing  conflicts  slow  and  sore, 

Can  soothe  how  slight  these  ails  unmerited 
Of  souls  forlorn  upon  the  facing  shore! 

Where  naked,  gaunt,  in  endless  band  on  band 
Seven  millions  stand. 

No  man  can  say 

To  your  great  country  that  with  scant  delay, 

You  must,  perforce,  ease  them  in  their  sore  need: 
We  know  that  nearer  first  your  duty  lies; 

But — is  it  much  to  ask  that  you  let  plead 
Your  loving-kindness  with  you — wooing- wise- — 
Albeit  that  aught  you  owe  and  must  repay 
No  man  can  say? 

BELGIUM  THANKS  AMERICA. 

By  Mme.  Emile  Vandervelde. 

Today  it’s  Christmas  morning:  we  hear  no  Christmas 
bell, 

But  still  we  tell  the  story  which  once  we  loved  to  tell — 
“Goodwill,”  “Goodwill” — we  read  it:  and  “Peace” — 
we  hear  the  name, 

And  crouch  among  the  ruins,  and  watch  the  cruel  flame, 
And  hear  the  children  crying,  and  turn  our  eyes  away. 
For  them  there’s  neither  bread  nor  home  this  happy 
Christmas  Day. 

But  look!  there  comes  a message  from  far  across  the 
deep, 

From  hearts  that  still  can  pity,  and  eyes  that  still  can 
weep — 

O,  little  lips  a-hunger;  O,  faces,  pale  and  wan 
There’s  somewhere,  somewhere,  peace  on  earth,  some- 
where goodwill  to  man, 

Across  the  waste  of  waters,  a thousand  leagues  away, 
There’s  someone  still  remembers  that  here  it’s  Christ- 
mas Day. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


133 


O,  God  of  Peace,  remember,  and  in  Thy  mercy  keep 

The  hearts  that  still  can  pity,  the  eyes  that  still  can 
weep: 

Amid  the  shame  and  torment,  the  ruins  and  the  graves, 

To  theirs,  the  land  of  freedom,  from  ours,  the  land  of 
slaves, 

What  answer  can  we  send  them? — we  can  but  kneel 
and  pray — 

God  grant,  God  grant,  to  them  at  least  a happy  Christ- 
mas day. 

Christmas,  1914. 


WHAT  ARE  YOU  DOING  FOR  ENGLAND? 

What  are  you  doing  for  England, 

Women  of  our  domain? 

For  we  know  indeed  in  the  hour  of  need 
We  look  to  you  not  in  vain. 

You  can’t  go  and  fight,  but  there’s  plenty  of  work 
That  none  but  you  girls  can  do. 

If  you  play  your  part  with  a brave  true  heart, 
You  can  help  us  to  pull  things  through. 

“London  Mail” 


THE  WIDOW’S  MITE. 


(Five  thousand  men  have  gone  at  their  country’s  call  from  the  Isle  of  Lewis 
in  the  Hebrides.  At  Garrabost,  Skye,  Scotland,  one  widow  has  given  her 
seven  sons  to  her  country’s  cause  ) 

There’s  a little  widow  at  Garrabost, 

Across  the  Western  sea; 

She  had  seven  brave  sons,  and  when  the  guns 
Rang  out  their  call,  said  she: — 

“They  are  giving  their  best  from  East  and  West 
For  the  sake  of  all  that’s  dear. 

I’m  a poor  old  wife  that’s  lived  my  life — : 

I would  keep  my  loved  ones  here. 

For  the  yellow  corn  must  be  gathered  in, 

And  the  boat  must  go  to  sea, 

There’s  the  croft  to  keep,  lest  hunger  creep 
To  the  heart  of  my  boys  and  me. 


134 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Yet  I cannot  lie  down  in  my  bed  to  sleep 
For  the  call  comes  over  the  wave; 

And  I say  to  my  heart — Now  bear  thy  part! 

O little  woman,  be  brave! 

There  are  widows  and  wives  that  wail  and  weep 
In  a sorrowing  land  afar, 

Where  martial  might  slays  Truth  and  Right, 

In  the  blood-red  tracks  of  war. 

So  I rise  in  the  dark  and  wake  my  lads, 

Though  the  salt  tear  dims  my  eye; 

And  I send  them  away  in  the  dawning  grey, 

For  the  sake  of  those  who  die. 

0 lone  is  the  croft,  and  the  sea  is  lone; 

Yet,  though  my  heart  must  bleed, 

’Twere  better  the  brave  should  lie  in  the  grave, 
Than  shirk  their  country’s  need.  ” 

O little  woman  of  Garrabost, 

Across  the  Western  foam, 

God  keep  your  sons,  till  the  vengeful  guns 
Drive  crime  and  rapine  home! 

L.  M’L.  W. 


A SONG  FOR  WOMEN. 

We  cannot  go  with  the  fighting  line, 
Or  help  to  fire  a gun, 

Or  do  the  deeds  that  will  ever  shine 
Till  the  nation’s  life  is  run. 

But  we  can  help  with  a courage  high 
To  bid  our  men  good  cheer, 

With  a stirring  word  instead  of  a sigh 
And  a smile  instead  of  a tear. 

Chorus: 

With  never  a sign  of  aching  heart, 
With  courage  in  our  face, 

We  will  do  our  work  and  take  our  part 
For  the  glory  of  the  race. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


135 


For  the  men  the  march  and  the  roll  of  drums, 
And  the  battle’s  fiery  breath, 

And  the  mighty  chance  that  with  them  comes 
Of  glory — or  of  death. 

For  women,  the  spirit  that  sends  them  there 
With  a courage  twice  their  own, 

The  pride  that  never  knows  despair 
And  a faith  that  knows  no  moan. 

The  men  can  follow  where  Nelson  led, 

And  Wellington  and  Drake, 

And  the  brave  unnamed  in  ages  dead 
Who  fought  for  their  country’s  sake. 

We  women  of  Britain,  too,  shall  add 
A page  to  history, 

F or  we  give  our  dear  ones — and  are  glad ! 

For  the  cause  of  Liberty. 

Elizabeth  Baker  in  the  “London  Daily  Chronicle.” 

GREY  KNITTING. 

All  through  the  country,  in  the  autumn  stillness, 

A web  of  grejr  spreads  strangely,  rim  to  rim; 

And  you  may  hear  the  sound  of  knitting-needles 
Incessant,  gentle,  dim. 

A tiny  click  of  little  wooden  needles 
Elfin  amid  the  gianthood  of  war; 

Whispers  of  women,  tireless  and  patient, 

Who  weave  the  web  afar. 

Whispers  of  women,  tireless  and  patient— 

“Foolish,  inadequate!”  we  hear  you  say; 

“Grey  wool  on  fields  of  hell  is  out  of  fashion.” 

And  yet  we  weave  the  web  from  day  to  day. 

Suppose  some  soldier  dying,  gaily  dying, 

Under  the  alien  skies,  in  his  last  hour 

Should  listen,  in  death’s  prescience  so  vivid, 

And  hear  a fairy  sound  bloom  like  a flower— 

I like  to  think  that  soldiers,  gaily  dying 

For  the  white  Christ  on  fields  with  shame  sown  deep 

May  hear  the  fairy  click  of  women’s  needles 
As  they  fall  fast  asleep. 

— Katherine  Hale,  in  the  “Toronto  Globe.” 


136 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


THE  HELPERS. 

Last  night  the  moon  rose  in  a shroud; 

The  misty  valley  deep 
Was  silent  as  a lonely  cloud 
That  sails  o’er  worlds  asleep. 

The  shrouded  moon  on  fields  afar 
Rose  on  unshrouded  slain — 

The  harvest  of  the  scythes  of  war 
That  reap  the  living  grain. 

I saw  in  vision  host  on  host 

Hurled  through  the  fiery  gloom, 

Yet  came  no  word  of  battles  lost, 

No  murmuring  of  doom. 

I saw  the  seed  of  English  shires 
Flower  on  the  fields  of  France, 

The  blood-red  battle-bloom  our  sires 
Carried  on  sword  and  lance. 

Then  was  I ’ware  of  myriads  vast 
Who  these  with  ardor  fed — 

Spirits  of  soldiers  of  the  past 
Who  died,  but  are  not  dead! 

C.  K.  B.  “Glasgow  Herald.” 


THE  PATRIOT. 

Fve  destroyed  all  our  gramophone  records 
Of  the  Wagner  and  Beethoven  school: 

Kate’s  eau-de-Cologne  in  the  dustbin  Fve  thrown, 
With  her  slippers  of  Viennese  wool. 

I have  poisoned  her  favorite  dachshund; 

I have  given  our  fraulein  the  sack, 

And  Fve  broken  my  boy’s  mechanical  toys 
With  the  Teuton’s  trade  mark  on  the  back. 

Fve  renounced  all  Bavarian  brewings, 

And  my  middle-day  lager  as  well. 

On  champagne  I exist,  and  with  courage  resist 
The  seductions  of  hock  and  Mosells. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


137 


My  cigarettes  now  are  “all  Russian,” 

A Belgian  attends  to  my  hair, 

While  Paris  supplies  every  one  of  my  ties; 

Thank  Heaven  that  I’ve  done  my  share! 

Dudley  Clark.  “London  Opinion.” 


ON  THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  RHEIMS 
CATHEDRAL. 

Alas,  fair  France!  With  thee  we  stand  and  weep 
The  piteous  vigil  at  thy  side  we  keep. 

Thy  sacred  shrine  is  dust,  thy  splendid  towers 
No  longer  watch  for  him  man’s  changeful  hours. 

The  generations  come  in  hopes  and  fears, 

But  nevermore  return  the  golden  years — 

The  years  of  beauty,  we  shall  raise  no  more 
The  Gothic  arches,  nor  their  aisles  restore. 

Thy  fathers,  strong  in  early  faith,  once  gave 
Till  Time  should  end  the  glory  of  this  nave, 

Gone  in  one  hour — flame  where  thy  saints  once  trod- — 
Vengeance  is  Thine,  oh  haste,  avenging  God! 

M.  C.  Leigh. 


THE  CHIMES  OF  TERMONDE. 

The  groping  spires  have  lost  the  sky, 

That  reach  from  Termonde  town; 

There  are  no  bells  to  travel  by, 

The  minster  chimes  are  down. 

It’s  forth  we  must,  alone,  alone, 

And  try  to  find  the  way; 

The  bells  that  we  have  always  known, 
War  broke  their  hearts  to-day. 

They  used  to  call  the  morning 
Along  the  gilded  street, 

And  then  their  rhymes  were  laughter, 
And  all  their  notes  were  sweet. 


138 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


I heard  them  stumble  down,  the  air 
Like  seraphim  betrayed; 

God  must  have  heard  their  broken  prayer 
That  made  my  soul  afraid. 

The  Termonde  bells  are  gone,  are  gone, 

And  what  is  left  to  say? 

It’s  forth  we  must,  by  bitter  dawn, 

To  try  to  find  the  way. 

They  used  to  call  the  children 
To  go  to  sleep  at  night; 

And  then  their  songs  were  tender 
And  drowsy  with  delight. 

The  wind  will  look  for  them  in  vain 
Within  the  empty  tower. 

We  shall  not  hear  them  sing  again 
At  dawn  or  twilight  hour. 

It’s  forth  we  must,  away,  away, 

And  far  from  Termonde  town, 

But  this  is  all  I know  to-day — 

The  chimes,  the  chimes  are  down! 

They  used  to  ring  at  evening 
To  help  the  people  pray, 

Who  wander  now  bewildered 
And  cannot  find  the  way. 

Grace  Hazard  Conicling,  in  the  “Atlantic  Monthly.  ” 


A VISION  OF  LOUVAIN. 

Above  the  blackened  smoke  that  rolled 
From  sacked  Louvain’s  cathedral  old, 

Three  Spirits  paused  in  evening’s  glow 
And  viewed  the  holocaust  below. 

The  first  was  Goethe.  Cold,  serene, 

He  gazed  upon  the  sorry  scene. 

“How  strange,”  he  mused,  “that  men,  incensed 
At  living  men,  should  rage  against 
Such  walls  as  these,  where  Flame  hath  fed, — 
The  works  of  better  men,  long  dead!” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


139 


The  second  Spirit  veiled  his  face. 

“Shall  these  be  men  of  our  own  race,” 

He  cried,  “that  come  in  ruthless  bands 
To  war  on  homes  with  firebrands?” 

“Peace,  Schiller,  peace! — though  such  things  be,” 
Quoth  Lessing,  wisest  of  the  three. 

“Speak  no  reproach  of  what  they  do, 

Or  they  will  name  thee  ‘Traitor,’  too; 

And  then  be  sure  these  Devil’s  cooks 
In  just  revenge  will  burn  thy  books!” 


THE  TRUE  STORY  OF  RHEIMS. 


(A  serial  story,  received  in  instalments  by  wireless 
from  Berlin.) 


Monday. — 


Tuesday. — 


Wednesday. — 


Thursday. — 


Friday. — 


Saturday.— 


We  are  accused — the  charge  appals — 
Of  shelling  Rhierns  Cathedral  walls. 
Such  liars  should  not  be  at  large, 
Our  culture  clears  us  of  the  charge. 
There  was  a slight  mistake  it  seems, 
A shot  or  two  was  fired  at  Rhierns; 
But  do  not  call  us  modern  Huns, 

We  never  used  our  biggest  guns. 
These  bestial  French  arouse  our  ire. 
It  was  their  fault  the  church  caught  fire. 
They  mounted  guns  upon  the  fane 
And  forced  us  to  fire  back  again. 

Off  with  your  hat,  your  voice  lift  up 
And  join  with  us  in  praise  of  Krupp. 
One  shell  from  out  our  biggest  gun 
And  Rhierns  was  battered  and  undone 
That  tale  from  Rhierns  was  quite  untrue, 
The  church  is  just  as  good  as  new. 
And  this  report  you  may  believe; 

’Tis  only  Frenchmen  who  deceive. 
Rheims  church  in  ashes  lies.  To  grieve 
Us  culture-folk  before  we  leave 
The  treacherous  French  have  burned 
it  down, 

You  ought  to  see  the  Kaiser  frown. 

X. 


140 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


MADONNA  OF  TERMQNDE 

Within  a convent  in  Termonde 
An  image  of  the  Virgin  stands 
Serene,  with  half  uplifted  hands 
And  eyes  that  seem  to  look  beyond 
The  mutability  of  things; 

Around,  war’s  ruthless  ravagings, 

The  shattered  roof,  the  crumbling  wall, 

Are  like  a sacrilege  malign, 

And  yet  some  power — was  it  divine? — 
Impalpable,  impending  there, 

Has  spared  the  image  and  the  shrine 

That  cast  a glamor  over  all 

And  bid  the  soul  to  bow  in  prayer. 

A miracle,  so  some  would  say; 

An  omen.  Be  this  as  it  may. 

The  sweet  Madonna  face  inspires 
The  thought:  Above  the  conflict  fires, 

The  hates,  the  base  desires  that  sway 
The  heart  of  man.  God  watches  still 
And  works  toward  that  diviner  day 
When  good  shall  triumph  over  all. 

—Clinton  Scollard,  in  the  “New  York  Sun.” 


MY  NORMANDY. 

The  following  poem  was  written  by  a French  prisoner  of  war  in  Wurtemberg. 
Before  the  war  he  was  professor  of  German  language  and  literature  in  a Nor- 
mandy university.  He  wrote  the  poem  in  German,  and  Frederick  F.  Schrader’s 
translation  in  the  Fatherland  follows: 

Alien  tongues  and  alien  legions, 

Alien  scenes  around  me  teem. 

Am  I still  in  fancy’s  regions? 

Do  I wake  or  do  I dream? 

Still  I hear  the  roar  and  rattle 
Of  the  camion,  fierce  and  deep, 

And  I see  the  god  of  battle 
O’er  my  native  valleys  sweep. 

Still  the  dull  reverberation 
Of  the  thunder  fills  my  ear; 

Scenes  of  carnage  desolation, 

Haunt  my  memory  even  here. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


141 


From  embattled  walls  my  vision 
Sweeps  o’er  alien  land  and  dome, 

While  my  heart  on  holy  mission 
Sends  a thousand  greetings  home. 

Where  the  shades  of  night  are  falling — 
Yonder,  where  I fought  for  thee. 

Thee  for  whom  my  heart  is  calling: 

My  beloved  Normandy. 

Yonder  sun,  serenely  beaming, 

Shines  alike  on  friend  and  foe; 

Over  yonder  shells  are  screaming, 
Battles  raging  to  and  fro. 

Here  a peace-enjoying  nation, 

Far  from  tumult  strife  and  dread — 

Would  that  war’s  fierce  devastation 
Had  descended  here  instead. 

These  the  rude  barbarian  minions, 
Planning  early,  planning  late, 

To  dismember  our  dominions, 

Filled  with  envy  and  with  hate? 

Were  these  homes  and  pleasant  places 
Fashioned  by  barbarian  hands? 

No,  I say!  No  noble  graces 
Ever  throve  on  barren  lands. 

Quiet,  love  of  home,  submission, 

Faith  in  God,  is  what  I see; 

Pleasing  prospects  greet  my  vision, 
Beautiful  as  Normandy. 

When  they  led  us  through  the  city, 
Enemies,  cast  down  in  cheer, 

Throngs  were  watching  as  in  pity, 

And  in  many  an  eye  a tear. 

Not  as  chained  slaves  did  they  meet  us, 
Bent  beneath  the  ruler’s  rod; 

But  as  equals  did  they  greet  us, 
Brothers  still  in  sight  of  God. 

Who,  then,  fanned  this  conflagration, 
Filled  our  hearts  with  fierce  distrust 

Of  this  proud  and  noble  nation, 

Calm,  and  sober  strong,  robust? 

France,  thy  gallant  sons  are  dying, 

And  thy  fields  are  desolate; 

Not  thy  foeman,  but  a lying 
Friend  has  sealed  thy  iron  fate. 


142 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Traitrous  friend,  thy  favor  suing, 
Dragged  thee  down  in  infamy, 
And  in  thy  complete  undoing 
My  beloved  Normandy. 


THE  KAISER’S  PRAYER. 

The  Latest  Ultimatum. 


Thia  "poem”  was  wr'tten  by  an  American  and  published  in  the  Glasgow 
“Daily  Citizen”  Dec.  29,  1914. 

Gott!  Dear  Gott!  Addentions,  please! 

Your  bardner  Vilhelm’s  here 
Und  has  a vord  or  two  do  say 
Indo  your  brivate  ear. 

So  durn  avay  all  odders  now 
Und  listen  veil  do  me, 

For  vhat  I say  concerns  me  much — 
Meinself  und  Shermany. 

You  know,  dear  Gott,  I was  your  frendt, 

Und  from  mein  hour  of  birth, 

I quietly  let  you  rule  der  Heffen 
Vile  I ruled  o’er  der  earth. 

Und  vhen  I toldt  my  soldiers 
Of  bygone  battle  days 
I gladtly  split  der  glory 
Und  giff  you  half  der  praise. 

In  efery  vay  I tried  do  prove 
Mein  heardt  do  you  vas  true, 

Und  only  claimed  mein  honest  share 
In  great  deeds  vat  ve  do. 

You  could  not  haf  a bedder  frendt 
In  sky  or  landt  or  sea 
Dlian  Kaiser  Vilhelm  Number  Two, 

Der  Lord  of  Shermany. 

Now,  vat  I say,  dear  Gott,  is  dis: 

Dat  ve  should  still  be  frendts 
Und  you  should  help  to  sendt  my  foes 
To  meet  dere  bitter  endts. 

If  you,  dear  Gott,  vill  dis  me  do, 

I’ll  nuddings  ask  again, 

Und  you  und  I vill  bardners  be 
Vorefermore.  Amen. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


143 


Bud  listen,  Gott,  it  must  be  quick 
Your  help  do  me  you  send, 

Or  else  I haf  to  stop  addack 
Und  only  blay  defend. 

So  four  and  twenty  hours  I gif 
To  make  der  Allies  run, 

Und  put  me  safe  into  mein  blace 
By  der  middle  of  der  sun. 

If  you  do  dis,  I’ll  do  my  bart, 

I’ll  dell  der  vorld  der  fact, 

But  if  you  don’t,  den  I must  dink 
It  is  an  hostile  act. 

Den  var  at  vonce  I viil  declare, 

Und  in  mein  anger  rise 
Und  send  mein  Zepp’lin  ships  to  wage 
A fight  up  in  der  skies. 

Dis  ultimatum,  now,  dear  Gott, 

Is  one  of  many  more; 

Mein  mindt  is  settled  up  to  clean 
Der  whole  vorld  off  der  floor. 
Because  you  vas  mein  bardner,  Gott, 
An  extra  schance  is  giffen; 

So  help  ad  vonce,  or  else  I’ll  be 
Der  Emperor  of  Heffen. 


SENSET. 

Behold  the  sun,  above  the  misty  sea 
Is  whelmed,  as  in  his  blood.  Black  clouds  on  high 
With  brand  of  lightening  cleave  the  lowering  sky, 
Save  where  the  western  wave  glows  mournfully! 
0 Lord  of  Day  and  tranquil  harvestry 
And  fruitful  love!  Thy  dreams  of  peace  must  die; 
Over  the  western  world,  thy  beams  go  by; 

And  cliff  and  headland  bid  goodnight  to  thee! 

Alas,  in  this  vast  war  must  all  things  fair 
Perish  at  once,  when  Death  reaps  everywhere 
His  ghastly  harvest  o’er  a million  graves! 

Honor  and  Faith,  Virtue  and  fair  Renown 
And  Love  and  Hope,  moaning  in  blood  go  down — 
And  night  shuts  in,  over  the  storm-tossed  waves. 

Henry  Harmon  Chamberlin. 


144 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


THE  PRICE. 

Not  only  mourn  the  brave  who  died  at  morn, 

Who  struck  their  blow  and  perished  in  their  pride; 
But  mourn  the  unlived  lives  who  also  died, 

Vain  hopes  of  generations  yet  unborn. 

Nor  mourn  the  stricken  children  bayonet  torn, 
Shell  driven  o’er  the  blazing  countryside; 

But  mourn  Man’s  twilight  and  his  eventide, 

And  brotherhood  betrayed,  and  faith  forsworn. 
Yea,  chiefly  mourn  the  most  heartrending  cost, 
Two  thousand  years  slow  progress  spent  and  lost, 
This  goodly  oak  cut  down  as  by  a sword. 

Brother  of  Death,  Sin’s  crowned  and  armtkl  birth, 
How  long  shall  this  new  Anarch  reign  on  earth, 
Unsmitten  of  Thy  thunderbolt,  0 Lord? 

Henry  Harmon  Chamberlin 
In  ‘ ‘Worcester  Gazette.” 


TO  GERMANY  AND  HER  APOLOGISTS 

You  say  that  Russia  lit  the  flames  of  war; 

And  England’s  envy  started  it;  and  then 
Torn  Belgium  started  it;  and  yet  again 
France  for  her  vengeance  ’gainst  your  rising  star. 

But  God,  who  watches  from  gray  skies  afar 
The  tribulation  of  the  sons  of  men, 

The  damning  truth  will  come  within  His  ken. 

He  knows  you  for  the  miscreants  that  you  are. 

Twice  did  the  nations  beg  that  your  ally, 

The  Hapsburg  Eagle,  let  her  prey  go  by, 

Till  the  world’s  judgment  made  her  grievance  plain; 
And  ye  have  twice  refused;  and  blood  ye  spilt 
With  solemn  counsel  of  deliberate  guilt, 

Yours  be  the  brand,  and  yours  the  curse  of  Cain! 

—Henry  Harmon  Chamberlin. 


GOD  AND  THE  KAISER. 

The  Kaiser  in  his  balcony,  he  talks  from  dawn  till  dark, 
To  flushed  expectant  multitudes  who  hearken  in  the 
park, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


145 


How  ’tis  war,  red  war,  for  a place  in  the  sun 

For  his  God  and  his  zeppelin  and  big  crook’d  gun. 

The  Kaiser  ’mid  his  myrmidons  cries  out  from  morn  till 
night, 

How  all  his  foes  are  always  wrong  and  he  is  always 
right, 

How  they  fight  for  the  right  and  his  God  will  be 
true, 

To  the  Prussians  and  the  Austrians,  whatever  they  may 
do. 

They  may  steal  the  land  in  Posen,  tilled  by  the  Polack 
spade; 

They  may  sabre  boys  in  Alsace  for  smiling  at  parade; 

They  may  trample  folk  in  Belgium,  where  his  armies 
violate 

The  words  his  sires  have  sworn  to  for  every  neutral 
state. 

They  may  shoot  the  farmer  in  the  ditch  and  burn  the 
village  down; 

They  may  ravish  all  the  women  for  their  overlord’s 
renown ; 

Nothing’s  wrong  for  the  strong,  and  his  God  is  on  his 
side 

Who  even  honest  decency  may  therefore  override. 

Arise,  arise!  beneath  the  skies,  too  long  this  tyrant 
brags ! 

Ravage  his  lands  from  Baltic  sands  and  Montenegrin 
crags ! 

O advance,  gallant  France!  and  scatter  his  fell  powers, 

And  wave  once  more  the  tri-color  from  Strassburg’s 
sacred  towers. 

And  England,  thou,  whose  realm  is  now  world’s  free- 
dom and  the  sea, 

Behold,  once  more,  on  Flemish  shore,  there’s  stern  sad 
work  for  thee! 

For  the  Lord  and  His  word,  ye  must  smite  with  your 
rod 

The  bloody,  treacherous  idol  whom  the  Kaiser  calls 
his  God. 


146 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


0 Thou  great  Power,  who  at  this  hour,  still  in  the  heart 
of  Man 

In  silent  justice  of  Thy  love,  dost  work  Thine  holy  plan. 
When  all  his  pride  is  cast  aside  in  everlasting  shame, 
Have  mercy  even  on  this  poor  fool  who  doth  blaspheme 
Thy  Name. 

Henry  Harmon  Chamberlin 

In  “Worcester  Gazette.” 


BY  WIRELESS  FROM  BERLIN. 

Little  I need,  my  wants  are  few, 

No  simpler  soul  has  been; 

Merely  a continent  or  two, 

With  oceans  in  between. 

Why  grudge  the  mild  and  gentle  Hun 
His  right  to  gambol  in  the  sun? 

A statue  in  Trafalgar  Square, 

Where  Nelson  used  to  be; 

If  London  needs  a hero  there, 

They’ll  surely  jump  at  me; 

And  wildly  cheer  me  as  they  go, 

Llpon  the  ’bus  to  Pimlico. 

A shooting-box  to  suit  me  could 
Be  found  across  the  Tweed; 

A country  place  in  Norfolk  would 
Be  very  nice  indeed. 

I like  Balmoral,  truth  to  tell, 

And  Sandringham  would  do  as  well. 

The  English  should  be  pleased  to  get 
A Kaiser  for  their  King. 

How  insular  to  be  upset, 

About  so  small  a thing! 

It  seems  absurd  to  have  to  fight, 
Because  I want  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

R.  Arkwell. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


147 


THE  GERMAN  SAINT. 

If  ever  you  climb  to  the  knees  of  the  gods, 

You’ll  find  a benevolent  soul 

Who  in  armor  and  paint  tries  to  pose  as  a saint, 

And  thinks  nothing  of  men  as  a whole. 

It’s  not  at  all  likely  you’ll  ever  get  there, 

For  the  friends  of  the  gods  are  select; 

But  try  wholesale  murder,  or  burn  down  a town, 

You  might  then  be  considered  elect. 

Or  perhaps  you  would  like  to  shake  hands  with  the  ghoul 
Who  claims  kinship  with  beings  on  high. 

Show  your  sympathy  then,  kill  some  women  and  men 
And  their  children  leave  homeless  to  die. 

You  will  then  have  complied  with  the  rules  of  the  few 
Who  in  sorrow  will  cheerfully  try 

To  chastise  a whole  world,  have  the  occupants  hurled 
To  perdition,  and  heed  not  their  cry. 

J.  S. 


HOLY  WILLIE’S  PRAYER. 


(With  apologies  to  the  Shade  of  Burns.) 

“ He  is  a barking  fox,  and  will  bite  and  do  a lot  of  mischief  yet.  ” Bismarok 
on  the  Kaiser. 

0 Thou,  wha  in  the  heavens  dost  dwell, 

Receive  this  message  from  meinsel’, 

For,  Lord,  I think  that  I’ve  done  well, 

A’  for  Thy  glory, 

In  sendin’  sinners’  souls  to  hell, 

Then  hear  my  story: — 

Ye  ken  that  Grey,  the  clever  loon, 

Did  a’  he  could  to  keep  me  doun, 

Thocht  that  yont  Belgim  I’d  come  roun’ 

To  get  to  France, 

Where  I had  vowed  that  late  or  soon 
I’d  lead  a dance. 

Thou  kens,  Lord,  I had  ta’en  an  aith, 

Alang  wi’  France  and  Britain  baith, 

To  keep  wee  Belgium  free  o’  skaith 
Or  enemies’  caper; 

But  did  they  think  that  I’d  keep  faith 
Wi’  a scrap  o’  paper? 


148 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


To  Belgians  offer  fair  I made, 

If  they  wad  ca’t  a piece  o’  trade, 

And  let  me  through  to  France.  I said 
I’d  pay  them  well; 

They  scorned  my  offer,  disobeyed, 

Sent  me  to  hell!! 

Thou  hast  seen  how  wi’  muckle  care, 

That  their  whole  country  I’ve  laid  bare 
Wi’  cannon,  rifle,  sword  and  spear 
In  bluid  knee-deep, 

And  left  mine  enemies  nae  mail' 

Than  eyes  to  weep. 

Thou  kens  I’ve  been  a clever  chiel, 

I’ve  been  as  cunnin’  as  the  de’il 
Tryin’  to  mak’  the  British  feel 
I them  did  like; 

While  wi’  my  fist,  weel  mailed  wi’  steel, 

I meant  to  strike. 

When  my  auld  granny  died  I wot, 

When  at  her  funeral  I grat, 

At  uncle’s,  too,  my  e’en  were  wat, 

I did  my  share; 

And  lots  o’  sympathy  I gat 

For  showing’t  there. 

And  Thou  hast  seen,  and  Thou  dost  ken 
How  me  they’ve  marred,  aye  now  and  then, 
And  now  they’re  like  to  do’t  again, 

Unless  Thine  aid 
Ye  grant.  Wi’  it  we  twa  shall  en’ 

Their  power  and  trade. 

It’s  four  months  now  since  I began 
To  carry  out  my  lang-made  plan, 

An’  tho’  I’ve  brocht  up  a’  my  clan 
I’m  no  near  Calais. 

Smite  them,  0 Lord,  wi’  Thy  right  han’ 
Thae  cocksure  Allies. 

0 Lord,  if  Thou  could ’st  see  Thy  way 
To  send  a storm  doun  here  some  day 
To  sink  their  fleets,  the  while  mine  lay 
Safe  up  at  Kiel, 

I’d  gie  Thee  a’  I hae  and  say 

Thou  had’st  dune  weel. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


149 


Then  after  I did  France  subdue, 

I’d  nail  the  Czar  and  a’  his  crew, 

And  do  the  same  wi’  Servia,  too, 

Just  as  Thy  servant. 

On  knee,  I pray  for  this  I do, 

Wi’  voice  most  fervent. 

Lord,  then  I’m  sure  I’d  hae  a chance 
O’  crossin’  owre  the  seas  frae  France, 

The  British  beat.  I’d  then  advance, 

Thine  own  appointed, 

Conquer  the  world  wi’  shot  and  lance, 

The  Lord’s  anointed. 

Thou  kens  I’m  cursed  baith  far  and  near, 
Because  I haud  Thy  name  sae  dear, 

E’en  ministers  been  heard  to  swear 
(They  micht  been  wiser), 

An’  that  in  words  baith  lood  an’  clear, 

“God  damn  the  Kaiser!!” 

And  some  there  are  far  ’yont  the  seas 
Misca’  me  sair,  and  wad  me  seize. 

We’ll  pick  a craw,  when  I get  ease, 

‘Bout  German  “Kultur.” 

They  want  me  change  my  emblem,  please, 
To  Monster  Vulture! 

Grant  me,  O Lord,  this  prayer  divine, 

And  also  bless  aye  me  and  mine, 

An’  I’ll  aye  help  baith  Thee,  and  Thine 
Until  the  en’. 

We  twa  will  rule  the  war  Id  richt  fine. 

Amen!  Amen! 

Kilmarnock.  Thomas  Ktllin. 


WILHELM  AGAIN. 


(With  acknowledgments  to  R.  L.  Stevenson.) 

It’s  strange  that  a’  the  British  claim 
Britannia  rules  the  sea, 

An’  clean  forget  to  explain  the  same 
To  an  Emperor  like  me. 


150 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


The  donnered  French  and  Russian  folk 
Their  weird  they  weel  may  dree, 

But  their  armies  are  a pig  in  a poke 
To  an  Emperor  like  me. 

The  Belgians  kenna  richt  frae  wrang, 

They  suffer,  bleed,  and  dee; 

But  a’  their  woes  are  an  empty  sang 
To  an  Emperor  like  me. 

It’s  a different  thing  that  I demand, 

Though  humble  as  can  be — 

Unchallenged  sway  o’er  sea  and  land 
For  an  Emperor  like  me. 

Each  foe  maun  bow  before  me  yet 
With  a plain  apologie, 

Or  deevil  a ceevil  word  they’ll  get 
Frae  an  Emperor  like  me. 

* * * * * * * * 
Added  in  another  hand: — 

“The  best-laid  schemes  o’  mice  and  men” — 
And  Kaisers — gang  agee ; 

But  soon  the  Day  is  coming  when 
Nae  Emperor  you’ll  be. 

A.  S.,  Jun. 


THE  KAISER’S  DREAM. 

Ye  dauntless  Poles,  th’  Imperial  dreams, 
Are  much  disturbed  of  late  with  schemes, 
And  scraps  of  paper,  bombs  and  raids, 
And  floating  mines  and  ambuscades, 

And  howitzers,  Divine  machines, 

That,  helped  by  heav’n  and  submarines, 
Will  spread  our  Hunnish  “kultur”  over, 
And  smash  to  bits  a dog  at  Dover. 

And  I look  on  while  cannon  fodder 
Seek  out  some  fishing-smack  to  prod  ’er; 
And  hymn  on  my  Imperial  lyre, 

Like  Nero  fiddling  ’mid  the  fire. 
Awhiles,  I browse  on  other  things, 

And  sympathise  with  dusky  kings, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


151 


Pigmy  and  bandit,  Copt  and  Kurd, 

And  other  men  of  whom  I’ve  heard, 

But  most  of  all,  my  cultured  soul 
Bemoans  thy  lot,  O gentle  Pole, 

And  longs  to  see  my  sway  expand, 

And  dignify  my  Fatherland. 

The  other  night,  after  a bout 
With  leberwurst  and  sauerkraut, 

I slept  the  sleep  of  just  and  true, 

As  Attila  the  Great  would  do; 

When,  suddenly,  in  dead  of  night, 

A wondrous  Figure  hove  in  sight, 

Who  handed  me  my  sword  close  by. 

And  bade  me  save  the  Poles  or  die. 

So  Poles,  ye  will  agree  with  me, 

The  Virgin  and  the  Deity, 

Unite,  as  is  most  clearly  shown, 

Their  counsels  with  my  cultured  own. 

A.  W.  H.,  in  the  “London  Evening  Standard.” 


GERMANY’S  NAVAL  “VICTORY”. 

Drink  to  “The  Day!”  the  glorious  day 
When  culture’s  faith  was  justified, 

When  alien  ships  in  proud  array 

Were  rent  and  sunk  beneath  the  tide; 
When  Wilhelm’s  triumph  was  complete 
Over  the  British  (fishing)  fleet! 

Did  Germans  fear  the  British  guns; 

Not  they,  for  there  were  none  to  fear; 

The  Fatherland’s  impetuous  sons 
Dashed  to  the  conflict  with  a cheer, 

So  fiercely  eager  they  to  greet 

The  mighty  British  (fishing)  fleet! 

At  sowing  mines  behind  our  backs, 

At  scuttling  under  fullest  steam, 

At  sinking  helpless  fishing  smacks, 

The  Kaiser’s  heroes  stand  supreme. 
Here’s  to  the  day  when  they  shall  meet 
Our  Fleet  that’s  not  a fishing  fleet! 

London  “Evening  News.” 


152 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


WEELUM’S  “KULTL'R.” 

Ca’  canny,  Weelum!  canny,  please! 

Your  pious  cants  an’  fulsome  lees — 

“Paris  plague-struck,”  “London  ableeze” — 
May  weel  appease  them; 

The  lang-bow  you  can  draw  wi’  ease, 

An’  tune’t  to  please  them. 

Bauld  Ananias,  famed  lang  syne, 

Was  but  a stripplin’  in  your  line; 

A Prince  o’  leears,  he  fails  to  shine 
Up  to  your  reaches; 

But  then,  he  lacked  the  Kultur  fine 
That  Berlin  preaches. 

Nae  doot  he  did  his  very  best — 

Leein’  to  God  was  no  mean  test — 
Degraded,  piloried,  the  detest 

O’  saunts  an’  sinners; 

Yet  his  best  wark,  ’gainst  yours,  contest 
’S’a  mere  beginner’s. 

But  you  are  Gott  to  Germans  keen, 

Your  feet  o’  clay  they’ve  never  seen; 

Hence  you  can  fill  them  to  the  e’en 
Wi’  orra  stories — 

A’  ither  tales  o’  what  has  been 
Are  allegories. 

Guid  feth!  their  culture  proves  their  Gott, 
Proclaims  them  a puir  doitet  lot, 

Hand-fed,  deluded  as  a sot 

Wi’  clumsy  cantin’; 

True  culture  feels  the  mair  it’s  got, 

The  mair’s  awantin’. 

Swelled  head,  not  culture,  is  the  name 
Will  yet  redound  to  German  fame; 

Not  of  the  head  can  you  acclaim 
It’s  worth  or  merit — 

Nor  of  the  heart,  nor  of  the  wame, 

Nor  e’en  the  spirit. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


153 


For  o’  the  hash  you  serve  to  please  them 
Their  innocence  alone  can  ease  them, 

Till  Revelation  comes  to  tease  them, 

Wi’  your  mad  capers, 

An’  retribution  firmly  seize  them 
Owre  scraps  o’  papers. 

You  say  your  cantin’,  murderin’  Huns 
Are  God’s  peculiar  chosen  ones; 

God’s  serving  wi’  them  at  the  guns, 

The  world  to  capture, 

For  German  Kultur  German  buns 
Wi’  holy  rapture. 

Puir  feckless  souls!  Such  rot  believe! 

Their  simple  faith  you  weel  deceive; 

Black  bread  an’  ale  they  a’  receive, 

Horse  flesh  and  tallow. 

Fouk  that  wi’  that  can  work  an’  leeve 
Ocht  else  can  swallow. 

Carnoustie.  J.  B. 


A CRISIS  IN  BERLIN. 

The  King  was  wearing  an  anxious  air, 

The  kingly  soul  was  sore; 

Furrowed  his  brow  with  the  vexing  care 
Of  running  a cultured  war: 

For  the  present  problem  imposed  a strain 

On  even  his  superhuman  brain. 

So  truly  heroic  had  proven  they 
Who  fought  for  the  Fatherland. 

Fie  had  given  his  iron  cross  away 
With  a far  from  niggardly  hand; 

Till  now  no  soldier  was  not  possessed 

Of  a bauble  to  hang  on  his  manly  chest. 

For  Hans  had  one  for — I can’t  recall, 

And  Fritz  for — Heaven  knows  what; 

And  Heinrich’s  deed  was  the  best  of  all, 
Though  its  nature  was  quite  forgot. 

Yet  crosses  remained,  a goodly  heap: 

He’d  a natty  machine  that  made  them  cheap. 


154 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Must  his  busy  factory  stop  for  lack 
Of  heroes  to  find  it  work? 

But  here  the  Imperial  smile  came  back — 
The  future  was  free  from  murk. 

“The  problem  is  solved;  let  sadness  cease: 
My  soldiers  shall  have  a brace  apiece.” 
“London  Opinion”  Theta. 


THE  CALAIS  OF  OUR  ALLY. 

The  Kaiser  sings: — 

Of  all  the  towns  that  edge  the  coast 
Of  France,  I’d  like  to  sally 
With  all  my  mighty  armies  most 
To  Calais,  pretty  Calais. 

If  only  I could  reach  that  spot 
And  feast  my  eyes  on  Dover! 

A fleet  of  submarines  I’ve  got 
To  take  my  soldiers  over. 

Then  we’d  haul  down  the  Union  Jack 
And  hoist  the  German  Vulture, 

And  every  English  town  we’d  sack 
To  show  our  German  culture! 

“London  Opinion.”  M.  B.  H. 


SONG  OF  THE  LANDWEHR. 


Britishers  at  the  front  have  been  vastly  amused  by  the  song  of  the  Landwehr 
which  was  found  in  the  pocket  of  a dead  German  and  translated  and  distributed 
to  Tommy  as  he  sat  in  his  trench.  Here  is  the  effusion: — 

A SONG  OF  WAR. 

First  sung  by  the  14th  Co.  1st  Bn.  106th  Landwehr  Regt.,  24th  Division, 
19th  Army  Corps. 

Composed  by  Lieut.  Kotzoh. 

Tune — “The  Vicar  of  Bray-sur-Somme.’’ 

Hi!  Nicholas,  my  pretty  chit, 

Take  my  advice  and  hop  it!  Git! 

We’ve  just  begun  to  stretch  our  legs; 

We’ll  catch  you  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs. 

We  Landwehr, 

Ho!  Landwehr, 

The  stamping,  ramping  Landwehr. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


155 


You  too,  you  tiny  President, 

You’re  getting  too  impertinent; 

If  you  don’t  mend  your  manners  quick 
We’ll  dust  your  breeks  the  same  as  Nick, 

We  Landwehr, 

Yah!  Landwehr. 

The  stamping,  ramping  Landwehr. 

And  you,  King  George,  whom  nothing  shames, 
We’ll  soon  be  sailing  up  your  Thames, 
Making  a truly  German  noise, 

For  we’re  the  Kaiser’s  bonniest  boys, 

We  Landwehr, 

Rah!  Landwehr. 

The  howling,  scowling  Landwehr. 

So  off  together  brawlers  three 
Unless  you  want  to  taste  the  Spree; 

But  ere  you  do  your  triple  scoot 
You’ll  feel  the  Landwehr’s  hefty  boot 
Just  land  where, 

The  Landwehr 

In  early  boyhood  tanned  were. 

Peter,  you  knave,  in  Servian  sty, 

Franz  Joseph  comes  to  wipe  your  eye; 

No  need  to  pray  on  bended  knees — 

We  listen  to  no  weaklings  pleas 
We  Landwehr, 

Yes,  Landwehr, 

The  dashing,  slashing,  Landwehr. 

Sing,  Austrian  brother,  jodel,  shout, 

The  German  Landwehr  pulls  you  out; 

Surely  you  hear  our  Battle  Call, 

“Kaiser  and  Country,”  and  (’bove  all) 

The  Landwehr, 

Ho!  Landwehr, 

The  God’s  own  Chosen  Landwehr. 


156 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


“H0CH  DER  KAISER!” 


Rear  Admiral  Coughlan  of  the  United  States  navy,  who  died  recently,  will 
be  chiefly  remembered  because  he  recited,  “ Hoch  Der  Kaiser,”  at  a dinner  of 
the  Union  League  Club  a couple  of  years  ago,  and  almost  created  international 
complications  by  doing  so.  The  verses  are  as  follows: 


Der  Kaiser  von  das  Fatherland 
Und  Gott  and  I all  dings  command; 

We  two — ach!  Don’t  you  understand? 
Meinself — und  Gott ! 

Vile  some  mer  sing  der  bower  divine 
Mein  soldiers  sing  “Die  Wacht  am  Rhein,” 
Und  drink  der  health  in  Rhenish  wine 
Of  me — und  Gott! 

Dere’s  France,  she  swaggers  all  aroundt, 

She’s  ausgespieldt — she’s  no  aggound 
To  much  we  think  she  don’t  amound 
Meinself  und  Gott ! 

She  will  not  dare  to  fight  again; 

But  if  she  shouldt,  I’ll  show  her  blain 
Dot  Elsass  and  (in  French)  Lorraine 
Are  mein — by  Gott! 

Dere’s  Grandma  dinks  she’s  nicht  schmall  beer 
Midt  Boers  and  such  she  interfere: 

She’ll  learn  none  owns  dis  hemisphere 
But  me — und  Gott! 

She  dinks,  good  Frau,  from  ships  she’s  got 
Und  soldiers  midt  der  scarlet  coat 
Ach!  We  could  knock  dem,  Pouf!  like  dat, 
Meinself  und  Gott! 

In  dimes  of  peace,  brebare  for  wars, 

I bear  der  helm  and  spear  of  Mars, 

Und  care  not  for  den  thousand  Czars 
Meinself — midt  Gott! 

In  fact  I humor  efry  whim, 

Mit  aspect  dark  and  visage  grim; 

Gott  pulls  mit  Me  and  I mit  Him, 

Meinself — und  Gott! 


W.  A. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


157 


A HINT  TO  THE  KAISER. 


An  English  lady  who  has  returned  from  Berlin  states,  “ It  is  absolutely  true 
that  the  Kaiser’s  hair  has  turned  white  since  the  war  began.” 

When  haughty  Kaiser  stoops  to  folly 
And  finds  too  late  that  he’s  a guy, 

What  art  can  soothe  his  melancholy, 

What  transformation  can  he  buy? 

The  only  art  that’s  sure  to  please  him, 

To  hide  his  white  locks  from  every  eye, 

To  contradict  their  tales  about  him, 

And  to  surprise  them  is — to  dye. 

“London  Opinion.”  H.  B. 


L’AMENDE  HONORABLE. 

To  conciliate  the  remaining  population,  concerts  are  being  given  by  the 
Germans  in  Belgian  towns. 

We  have  ravaged  your  homes,  we  quite  admit, 

We  have  butchered  your  babes  ( ’tis  thus  we  fight) ; 
For  you  were  scanty  and  few,  though  fit, 

And  we  were  many,  and  might  is  right. 

But  you  shouldn’t  keep  feeling  angry.  Hark! 
There’s  a German  band  in  your  local  park. 

We  would  fain  be  friends  (having  done  our  worst) ; 

They  lie  who  label  us  harsh  and  rude ; 

We  love  to  be  blessed  instead  of  cursed; 

We  have  murdered  your  wives,  but  you  must  not 
brood, 

Nor  weep  for  the  fate  of  your  plundered  land, 

For  isn’t  that  cornet  solo  grand? 

You  still  can  be  happy  beneath  our  sway, 

The  German  isn’t  at  heart  a brute. 

Our  Princes  have  quite  a friendly  way 
(As  long  as  there’s  nothing  about  to  loot.) 

List  to  the  melodies,  soothing,  fine, 

From(<our  well-trained  troupe  of  performing  swine! 

Theta. 


158 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


JOHN’S  PUNISHMENT  FOR  THE  KAISER. 

“I’ve  been  thinkin’  deeply,  mither, 

O’  this  war  in  Germany, 

Wonderin’  when  at  last  it’s  over 
What  the  Kaiser’s  fate  will  be; 
Wonderin’  will  they  hang  or  shoot  him, 

Or  imprison  him  for  life, 

For  there’s  no’  the  slightest  question 
He’s  the  cause  o’  a’  the  strife. 

“They  hae  lost  a’ready  fechtin’ 

Quite  a million  men,  I see; 

Whaur  he’ll  get  mair  to  replace  them 
Is  a mystery  to  me. 

But  ye’ll  notice  tho’  the  Kaiser’s 
Sacrificin’  thousands,  still 
His  ain  skin  is  kept  in  safety. 

Trust  the  Berlin  Butcher  Bill! 

“Could  they  only  catch  the  Kaiser 
O’  the  war  there’d  be  an  end, 

For  the  Berlin  Bully  hasna 
In  the  warld  a single  friend. 

Catch  the  Kaiser,  that  wad  end  it.” 

“Hoo’d  ye  punish  him,  my  son?” 

“Weel,  the  sentence  I wad  gie  him, 

Fegs,  wad  be  a novel  one! 

“I  wad  hand  the  Bully  over 
To  the  widows  o’  the  men 
Wha  hae  lost  their  lives  in  battle, 

Ye’d  see  what  wad  happen  then! 

I wad  hand  him  to  the  mithers 
Weepin’  for  their  slaughtered  sons, 

To  their  tender  mercies  I wad 
Hand  the  leader  o’  the  Huns! 

“For  as  shair  as  heaven’s  abune  us, 

Shair  as  earth  gangs  roond  the  sun, 
Condign  punishment’s  awaiting 
Wilhelm,  alias  The  Hun. 

Mither,  mark  my  words,”  he  added, 

“For  his  madman’s  act  he’ll  pay, 

And  the  hale  warld’s  lookin’  forward 
To  the  coming  o’  ‘The  Day!’” 

“Dae  ye  think  ’twill  last  much  langer?” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


159 


“Last  much  langer!”  laughed  my  son, 

“No,  it  won’t,  their  back  is  broken, 

Soon  we’ll  hae  them  on  the  run. 

Prussia  is  invaded,  mither, 

An’  it  somehoo  seems  to  me 
Soon  will  be  spellin’  Prussia. 

Minus  the  first  letter — P. 

“On  the  west  we’re  still  advancin’, 

Scottish  regiments  to  the  front, 

Chasing  Germans  oot  their  trenches, 

Bearin’  everywhere  the  brunt. 

Saw  ye  hoo  the  London  Scottish 
Gained  their  laurels  in  the  fight? 

Hoo  they  pit  three  times  their  number 
O’  the  German  troops  to  flight? 

“Then,  again,  in  China,  mither, 

Prussia’s  got  anither  whack, 

Tsingtau’s  fallen  to  the  Allies, 

Kaiser’s  got  anither  smack. 

Everywhere  he’s  been  defeated, 

Land  or  sea,  it’s  a’  the  same, 

It’s  ’boot  time  the  ’Potsdam.  Poltroon 
Hid  his  head  in  very  shame! 

“But  I wish  ’twas  ower  an’  done  wi’, 
Christmas  Day  is  near,  ye  ken, 

Christmas,  when  we  bury  quarrels — 

‘Peace  on  earth,  goodwill  to  men.’ 

Let  us  hope  it  will  be  ended, 

Prussia  conquered  lang  ere  then, 

Peace  on  earth,  a peace  that’s  lasting,” 

An’  I whispered,  “John — Amen.” 
Dundee.  Granny. 


WEEIUM’S  STRATEGY. 

He  planned  to  keep  Britain  frae  sidin’  wi’  France — 
But  it  didna  come  aff — it  didna  come  aff. 

To  Paris  he  meant  a triumphal  advance — 

But  it  didna  come  aff — it  didna  come  aff. 

He  promised  at  London  wad  haud  Hallowe’en 
Wi’  squibs  that  the  like  o’  had  never  been  seen; 

We  trem’led  a wee  when  the  message  was  gi’en — 
But  it  didna  come  aff- — it  didna  come  aff. 


160 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


He  thocht  that  the  Cape  would  revolt  to  a man; 

But  it  didna  come  aff — it  didna  come  aff. 

A Moslem  uprisin’  was  next  in  his  plan, 

But  it  didna  come  aff— it  didna  come  aff. 

He  vowed  that  he’d  batter  his  road  to  Calais, 
And  maister  the  Channel  for  a’  we  could  dae; 

But  as  far  as  I read  what  the  neswpapers  say— 

It  hasna  come  aff — it  hasna  come  aff. 

He  ettled  to  scuttle  the  British  navee; 

But  it  didna  come  aff — it  didna  come  aff. 

And  syne  we  wad  ken  what  invasion  wad  be; 

But  it  hasna  come  aff — it  hasna  come  aff. 

To  say  ’twill  be  aye  sae  wad  maybe  be  rash, 

But  here  is  a guess  that  will  naebody  fash — 

What  wey  is  his  strategy  like  his  moustache? 

It  disna  come  aff— it  disna  come  aff. 

W.  W. 


THE  GREAT  “1  AM.” 


Tbe  following  appeared  in  an  American  newspaper  about  fifteen  years  ago. 
It  is  peculiarly  appropriate: 

Translated  from  a German  memorandum  found  in  tbe  Emperor’s  personal 
waste-paper  basket.  The  original  has  been  presented  by  tbe  finder  to  the 
British  Museum. — John  Kendrick  Bangs. 


Oh  Me! 

Oh  My!! 

And  likewise  I!!! 

Sit  still,  my  curls,  while  I orate. 

Me,  I,  Myself,  The  Throne,  The  State, 

I am  the  earth,  the  moon,  the  sun 
All  rolled  in  one ! 

Both  hemispheres  am  I. 

Oh  My! 

If  there  were  three,  the  Three 
I’d  be. 

I am  the  Dipper,  Night,  and  Day, 

The  North  and  Southern  Poles,  the  Milky  Way, 
I am  they  that  walk  or  fly  on  wing, 

Or  swim  or  creep.  . . I’m  everything. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


161 


It  makes  me  tremble  like  the  aspen  tree 
To  think  I’m  Me! 

And  blink  like  stars  up  in  the  sky 
To  think  I’m  I! 

And  shrink  in  terror  like  a frightened  elf 
To  realize  that  I’m  Myself! 

Ye  blithering  slaves  beneath  my  iron  heel, 
What  know  ye  of  the  things  I feel? 

Didst  ever  wake  at  dead  of  night 
And  stand  in  awe  of  thine  own  might? 

It  took  six  days  to  make  the  land  and  sea, 
But  centuries  were  passed  in  making  Me! 
The  universe?  an  easy  task!  But  I — 

Oh  My! 


THE  GENTLE  GERMAN. 


From  Berlin  comes  the  explanation  that  the  works  of  art  looted  in  Belgium 
and  France  were  only  “removed  for  fear  that  they  might  be  damaged.” 

Kind  friends,  all  these  stories  are  wide  of  the  truth, 
That  label  us  roughly  as  Vandals; 

To  call  us  an  army  deficient  in  ruth 
Is  simply  the  basest  of  scandals. 

Our  cultured  endeavors  have  had  from  the  start 
The  aim  of  affording  protection  to  Art. 

Right  swift  to  our  minds,  when  we  happen  to  see 
A picture  in  hamlet  or  city, 

Comes  the  thought  “Were  this  hurt  in  the  smallest 
degree 

The  Kaiser  would  think  it  a pity; 

The  tidings  would  probably  bring  back  the  pain 
(In  his  cardiac  regions)  produced  by  Louvain.  ” 

In  this  (and  this  only)  the  reason  is  seen 
For  the  zeal  which  our  leader  evinces. 

This  makes  it  less  hard  to  distinguish  between 
Gutter  thieves  and  Imperial  Crown  Princes. 

He  wouldn’t  be  furthering  Culture’s  advance, 

Did  he  leave  an  art  treasure  in  Belgium  or  France. 


162 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Though  a prejudiced  world  with  our  infamy  rings, 
Yet  surely  on  history’s  pages, 

Our  deeds  will  appear  as  delectable  things 
In  the  judgment  pronounced  by  the  ages. 
Generations  unborn  will  lament  the  decline 
Of  the  civilised  race  that  was  whacked  on  the  Rhine. 
Theta,  in  “London  Opinion.” 


BLOUDIE  BILL. 

An  August  Legend,  After  Ingoldsby. 

O,  why  doth  thine  eye  gleam  so  bright, 

Bloudie  Bill, 

O,  why  doth  thine  eye  gleam  so  bright? 

The  Fatherland’s  sons 
May  have  horses  and  guns, 

They  may  fight  all  the  day,  and  sit  tight 

All  night, 

But  they’ll  never  get  round  on  the  right. 

Thy  laughter  is  pleasant  to  see, 

Bloudie  Bill, 

Thy  laughter  comes  pleasant  and  gay; 
“The  contemptible  French 
And  his  Army  entrench, 

But  we  haven’t  a moment  to  stay, 

To-day; 

And  we  shoo  the  poor  fellows  away. 

“Then  Paris  lies  open  to  Us 

(Bloudie  Bill), 

In  a week  she  comes  under  Our  hand. 

Next  London  shall  feel 
The  full  weight  of  our  heel — 

By  October  the  10th  we  shall  land, 

As  planned, 

And  proceed  up  the  Mall  (with  a band).” 

O laugh  not,  I pray  thee,  so  loud, 

Bloudie  Bill, 

O laugh  not,  I pray  thee,  so  clear; 

Art  thou  totally  blind 
To  the  danger  behind? 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


163 


Look!  the  Cossacks  are  coming!  They  cheer, 

“We’re  here.” 

They  are  thundering  up  in  thy  rear! 

Thy  answer  comes  ready  and  quick, 

Bloudie  Bill: 

“In  a week  We  have  France  on  her  knees; 

Then  We  pillage  and  bum, 

Do  a right-about-turn, 

And  mop  up  the  Tzar  at  Our  ease, 

And  seize 

Just  as  much  of  his  land  as  We  please.” 

0,  thine  eye  is  prophetic  and  keen, 

Bloudie  Bill, 

There’s  a splendor  that  shines  on  thy  brow; 

“ ’Tis  done!  We  have  won 
Such  a place  in  the  sun 
As  no  one  can  take  from  Us  now; 

So  bow 

To  Us,  the  All-Highest.  Wow-wow!” 

0,  why  doth  thine  eye  gleam  so  bright, 

Bloudie  Bill? 

Doth  the  tear  in  thine  eye  make  it  right? 

Von  Kluck  and  his  Huns 
Had  the  horses  and  guns; 

They  could  fight  all  the  day;  they  could  fight 

All  night  . 

But  they  never  got  round  on  the  right ! 

A.A.M.  in  “Punch.” 

THE  JUDGMENT  DAY. 

What  wilt  thou  say  in  the  judgment  day, 

Son  of  the  vandal  and  Goth, 

What  wilt  thou  say  in  the  judgment  day, 

When  the  God  is  all  of  wroth? 

The  rivers  of  Belgium  are  red  with  blood; 

Its  youths  and  its  men  are  slain; 

Its  fields  are  black  with  the  fires  of  war; 

Who  will  restore  them  again? 


164 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Why  didst  thou  go  like  a thief  in  the  night, 

To  the  house  thou  didst  not  own, 

With  pistol  and  sword,  and  lance,  and  gun, 

And  break  its  barriers  down? 

Weep  for  the  dead  and  say  the  lament, 

Thy  terrible  work  is  done. 

For  thou  hast  trampled  on  Flanders  and  France, 
Seeking  thy  place  in  the  sun. 

James  E.  Ives. 


THE  KAISER— ON  TOUR. 

By  Hugh  E.  Wright. 

There’s  a five-act  drama  “Culture” 
That  they’re  playing  out  in  France: 
I’s  managed  by  the  Kaiser, 

And  the  Crown  Prince  does  a dance! 
’Its  opening  date  was  Paris 
With  a flying  matinee 
At  Antwerp,  for  the  Belgians— 

’E  was  going  through  that  way. 

But  the  Belgians  didn’t  like  it, 

And  the  flying  matinee — 

Exceptin’  for  the  “flying”  part — 

Was  not  a grand  success: 

And  ’is  opening  date  at  Paris 
Somehow  went  a trifle  wrong. 

For  ’e  found  the  Allies  starring  there, 
And  going  very  strong. 

’E’s  booking  dates  for  England  now; 

But  really,  ’pon  my  word, 

I don’t  think  we  should  like  it,  Bill, 

I think  you’d  get  the  “bird”! 

You’re  not  much  good  at  touring: 

If  you  want  to  make  a hit, 

I should  sit  down  for  a minute, 

And  rewrite  the  piece  a bit. 

Your  Empire  p’raps  may  like  it, 

And  your  Palace  think  it  great; 

You  ’aven’t  been  a big  success 
On  tour,  though,  up  to  date. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


165 


And  when  you  do  get  ’ome  you’ll  find, 
If  you  don’t  ’ave  a care. 

That  you  ’aven’t  got  no  Empire, 

And  your  Palace  isn’t  there! 


TO  THE  GERMAN  CHANCELLOR. 

We  fight  because  we  had  to  fight, 

And  not  because  we  dare; 

We  fight  because  to  fight  is  right, 

When  peace  would  mean  despair. 

We  fight  because  we  are  afraid 
Of  what  our  sons  might  say, 

If  Belgium  in  her  tears  still  laid, 

When  comes  the  reckoning  day. 

We  fight  because  in  honor,  France 
Held  justly  to  her  word; 

While  you,  to  further  hell’s  advance 
Scorned  treaties  as  absurd. 

We  fight  because  we  have  brave  men, 
Whose  free  and  peaceful  blood 

Still  flowers  from  the  root  and  stem 
Of  British  motherhood. 

We  fight  because  we  hope  to  win 
For  right,  and  not  for  fame; 

To  let  you  conquer  would  begin 
Our  never-ending  shame. 

We  fight  because  we  love  God’s  peace, 
That  melteth  in  war’s  flare; 

To  win  the  sooner  men  may  cease 
This  senseless,  wine-like  snare. 

J.  H.  Pelzer. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  CAESAR. 

I am  the  Caesar  of  forces,  a ruler 

Glad,  mad  for  power  and  eager  for  quests; 

I am  the  peer  of  them, 

I have  no  fear  of  them, 

What  are  the  problems  of  men  are  my  jests! 


166 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


I am  the  Caesar  of  forces,  a kingdom 
Brilliant  with  glory  of  light  I unlock; 

Mine  is  the  glow  of  life, 

Mine  is  the  show  of  life, 

Mine  is  the  glamor — the  virtue — the  shock! 

I am  the  Caesar  of  forces,  my  kingship 
Who  can  deny  with  the  lips  of  the  truth? 

Men  come  and  go — not  I, 

Tides  ebb  and  flow — not  I, 

Mine  is  the  gift  of  perpetual  youth! 

Roscoe  Gilmore  Stott,  from  the  “Edison  Monthly” 

TO  THE  CENSOR  (UBER  ALLES). 

On  Reading  Mutilated  German  and  Dutch  Messages. 

Censor,  Censor,  of  the  War 
Must  we  wonder  what  you’re  for? 
Watching  news  with  eagle  eye 
Like  a flier-man  in  the  sky. 

Watching,  and — —to  leave  no  clue 
Pencilling  till  all  is  blue: 

Nought  survives  your  playful  pranks 
Save  the  rubbish  and  the  blanks. 

Censor;  Sane  men  do  not  crave 
Drivel  about  knuts  who  shave. 

What  they  wish  (and  you  ignore) 

Is  for  tidings  of  the  War. 

Censor!  Amster — , Rotter — , Pots — 
dam  well  know  the  news  that  dots, 
Asterisks  and  dashes  show 
Me  there’s  that  I must  not  know. 

If  the  Kaiser’s  spies,  sir,  read 
News  in  Deutschland  stale  and  dead, 

It  need  only  make  you  laugh 
When  they  tell  the  G.  G.  Staff. 

Censor,  give  your  ear  to  me 
While  I make  my  humble  plea. 

You  incense  me:  Now  from  hence — 

forth,  sir — cense  with  common-sense! 

A.  F. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


167 


THE  KAISER— AND  GOD. 

“Led  by  Wilhelm,  as  you  tell, 

God  has  done  extremely  well 
You  with  patronising  nod 
Show  that  you  approve  of  God. 
Kaiser,  face  a question  new — 

This — does  God  approve  of  you?” 
Barry  Pain  in  the  “Times.” 

KAISER  IN  HOT  WATER. 

From  H.  Cecil  Latham,  to  the  Kaiser: — 

We’ll  forgive  yer  for  yer  murders, 

An’  yer  bloomin’  awful  swank, 

We’ll  forgive  yer  lust  for  greatness, 

An’  yer  so-called  culture  rank, 

But  you  ’ave  got  in  ’ot  water 
With  us  British  workin’  men, 

For  the  nasty  turn  you  done  us 

When  you  closed  the  “pubs”  at  ten. 

“London  Opinion.” 

“SWOLLEN=HEADED  WILLIAM.” 

Look  at  William!  There  he  stands, 
With  the  blood  upon  his  hands. 

His  moustaches  daunt  the  sky, 

Pointing  to  his  great  Ally. 

What  of  Heaven  William  thinks 
Is  no  riddle  of  the  Sphinx, 

But  a matter  much  more  dim, 

Is  what  Heaven  thinks  of  him. 

E.  V.  Lucas,  in  “Cassell’s  Saturday  Journal.” 

THE  DISAPPOINTED  UHLAN. 

Marie  Van  Vorst  in  the  “London  Daily  Mail.” 

My  brother  Fritz  has  seen  Termonde 
And  all  the  country  there  beyond; 

And  Franzel  helped  to  sack  Louvain 
And  saw  the  streets  piled  up  with  slain, 
And  houses  with  their  roofs  on  fire: 

But  I have  not  seen  Paris,  Sire! 


168 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


The  Prussian  Guards  have  Brussels  seen 
And  marched  the  goose-step  on  the  green 

Of  private  park.  The th  Hussars 

Have  seen  old  Antwerp  ’neath  the  stars 
Wait  for  the  Zeppelin’s  murderous  fire: 
But  I have  not  seen  Paris,  Sire! 

The  Russians  have  seen  Lemberg  and 
The  forts  where  Danzig’s  sentries  stand; 
And  what  the  Russians  have  not  seen 
Perhaps  they’ll  tell  us  in  Berlin, 

With  victor’s  pride  and  hearts  on  fire. 
And  I have  not  seen  Paris,  Sire! 

I came  from  far  beyond  the  Rhine, 

To  see  new  lands,  to  drink  strange  wine, 
To  kiss  strange  women’s  lips  and  lay 
Their  lands  waste,  and  their  men  to  slay. 
My  friends  saw  Rheims  Cathedral  spire: 
But  I have  not  seen  Paris,  Sire! 

Und  Du,  who  led  us  on,  who  drew 
Us  from  our  peaceful  homes?  Ach,  Du, 
Whose  eyes  with  greed  were  fastened  on. 
The  great  dome  of  Napoleon, 

To  crush  a nation  dared  aspire! 

Such  monarchs  have  their  Paris,  Sire! 


BLOOD-GUILT. 

By  Frederic  George  Scott. 

(Canon  Scott  is  rector  of  St.  Matthew's  Church,  Quebec  City,  and  chaplain 
of  the  Eighth  Regiment,  Royal  Rifles,  of  Quebec.  He  is  now  at  Salisbury 
Plains,  England,  as  chaplain  with  the  Fourteenth  Battalion,  Canadian  Over- 
seas Force.) 

The  brand  of  Cain  is  on  your  brow, 

Emperor ! 

A crown  of  gold  may  hide  it  now, 

Emperor 

But  when  the  day  of  reckoning  comes, 

When  flags  are  furled  and  hushed  the  drums, 
When  labor  goes  with  bruised  hands 
To  plough  once  more  the  blood-stained  lands, 
A people’s  wrath  will  rend  the  skies 
And  topple  down  your  dynasties, 

Emperor ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


169 


In  vain  you  call  upon  the  Lord, 

Emperor! 

You  boast  of  honor  and  the  sword, 
Emperor! 

What  god  will  bless  the  hideous  flood 
Which  drowns  the  world  in  human  blood? 
The  vengeance  of  a broken  trust 
Will  grind  your  empire  in  the  dust, 

Till  Hohenzollern  crowns  are  cast 
Upon  the  refuse  of  the  past, 

Emperor ! 

The  cries  of  multitudes  unfed, 

Emperor ! 

The  curses  of  the  millions  dead, 

Emperor! 

Will  these  not  heap  on  you  the  scorn 
Of  generations  yet  unborn? 

Are  there  no  murmurs  in  your  ear 
Of  retribution  drawing  near? — 

The  fingers  of  a hand  that  write 
Inscribe  your  doom  upon  the  night, 
Emperor! 


VON  KLUCK. 

The  Continental  “Times,”  a German  newspaper  published  in  English,  in  its 
edition  of  Nov.  11,  prints  the  following  poem  on  General  von  Kluck. 

It  was  three  weeks  ago  today 
That  first  we  heard  the  Allies  say, 

“Tomorrow  morning  you’ll  have  learned 
How  Von  Kluck’s  right  flank  has  been  turned.  ” 
Somehow  the  turning  movement  stuck; 

He  didn’t  budge,  did  Herr  von  Kluck! 

A few  days  later  word  from  Paris 
Announced  that  two  new  corps  would  harass 
Von  Kluck’s  right  wing,  and  rank  by  rank 
Manoeuver  round  and  turn  his  flank. 

But  these  new  corps  had  rotten  luck; 

It’s  no  dead  cinch  to  turn  von  Kluck. 

A week  went  by  when  we  were  glad 
To  get  a cable  from  Petrograd. 

It  said  von  Kluck’s  communication 
Was  threatened  with  annihilation. 

But  he  stood  pat  and  passed  the  buck; 


170 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


He’s  got  some  flank,  has  Herr  von  Kluck! 

And  all  last  week  our  headlines  whirled 
With  the  various  ways  Von  Kluck  was  “hurled”: 
Yon  Kluck’ s right  flank  was  being  pounded; 
Von  Ivluck’s  whole  array'd  been  surrounded; 
The  hour  for  turning  that  flank  had  struck! 

But  the  flank's  still  there,  and  so’s  von  Kluck. 

So  take  your  Kaisers,  and  Princes  and  Grafts, 
Your  iron  Crosses  and  General  Staffs, 

Your  General  Joffres  and  Sir  John  Frenches, 
With  all  their  men  in  the  shelter  trenches; 

I’ll  take  for  mine  that  game  old  buck 
Who  won’t  be  turned — ja,  Herr  von  Kluck! 


AUSTRIAN  WAR  LAMENT. 

(Or  pronunciation  Made  Easy.) 

“ London  Opinion.  ” 

We  Austrians  cannot  stand  the  drizzle 
Of  Russian  shrapnel  at  Przemvsl! 

The  Russian  hordes  are  in  the  track  of 
Our  noble  men  who  flee  to  Cracow. 

A million  Cossacks  may  debouch, 

At  any  moment,  at  Olkuze! 

A million  more  reported  are 
At  Kamionkastrumilowa ! 

And  yet  another  million  have, 

Consumed  all  food  at  Jareslaw! 

Ah!  ev’rything  they  cleared — as  well  as 
The  larders  Jaszarokszcellas! 

Then  down  they  poured  like  molten  lava, 
On  rural,  innocent  Suczawa! 

And  now  they  march,  with  hungry  screech, 
On  harmless  little  Drohobycz! 

Curs'd  be  the  foreign  rascals,  greasy, 

Who  chased  us  at  Tustanowice! 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


171 


Steel  motor  cars — ten  guns  in  each  car — 
Are  rolling  on  toward  Wieliczka! 

How  truly  awful  will  it  be 
If  Cossacks  mangle  us  at  Stryj ! 

No  one  may  even  dare  to  guess  of 
The  patriots  who  fell  at  Rzeszow. 

Of  Czechs,  ’tis  said,  they’re  buried  a 
Battalion  at  Csikszereda! 

As  at  the  banquet  of  Belshazzar, 

The  finger  writes  at  Njiregyhaza! 

So,  ere  the  sky  with  dawn  grows  streaky, 
Let’s  fly  to  dear  old  Zaleszczyki! 


NOUGHTS  AND  CROSSES. 


They  are  a cheery  lot  on  H.  M.  S.,  Natal,  despite  the  hardships  of  the  watch 
in  the  North  Sea,  and  here  is  another  extract  from  the  ship’s  newspaper,  “The 
Natal  News  Letter,”  which  is  published  on  board. 

The  War  Lord  pondered — at  a loss 
On  whom  to  plant  the  Iron  Cross, 

His  breast  with  gauds  encrusted. 

His  eye  fell  on  poor  Belgium’s  soil, 

Ah!  That’s  the  place  to  break  and  spoil 
A nation  small,  that  trusted. 

But  Johnnie  B.  joined  in  the  game, 

And  met  Mad  Willie’s  fire  with  flame, 

Which  quickly  him  disgusted. 

And  so,  he  called  a Board  of  War, 

And  promised  crosses  by  the  score 
If  Britain’s  Fleet  was  busted. 

But  inside  Kiel  they’re  waiting  yet, 

And  will  be  till  those  crosses  get 
Corroded  o’er  and  rusted. 

— Bun  Tyng. 


172 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


WILHELM  LIBER  ALLES. 

(In  conversation  with  General  von  Stein,  his  literary  Aide-de-camp.) 

“Fritz,  I am  a-weary  of  the  victories  we  gain; 

Tell  me,  is  it  true  that  half-a-million  men  we’ve  slain?” 

“Sire,  there’s  not  a doubt  you’ve  killed  a million  men 
or  so, 

And  the  children  of  the  Fatherland  have  made  the 
biggest  show!” 

“Fritz,  about  my  Navy,  have  you  not  some  stirring 
news? 

Or  do  the  men  of  Grimsby  to  do  battle  still  refuse?” 

“Sire,  your  gallant  sailors  are  just  wonderful  to  me; 

They  keep  upon  an  even  ‘Kiel’  while  Britain’s  all  ‘at 
sea!”’ 

“ Fritz,  it’s  too  absurd,  of  course,  but  what  if  Britain’s 
might 

Should  penetrate  the  Baltic  Sea  and  force  us  all  to 
fight?” 

“Sire,  would  you  pollute  your  land  by  shedding  British 
gore? 

No!  you’d  take  strategic  steps  and  seek  a further 
shore!” 

“Fritz,  enough  of  horrors.  Here’s  my  ‘Death’s-head’ 
uniform; 

Tell  me,  do  you  fancy  I’ll  take  ‘Nancy’s’  heart  by 
storm?” 

“Sire,  I’ll  not  deceive  you,  nor  in  flattery  engage; 

But  when  it  comes  to  ‘ storming,  ’ I am  sure  you’ll  be 
the  rage!” 

“Fritz,  I would  not  weary  you,  but — just  another  one; 

Won’t  the  world  admire  me  dressed  as  Attila  the  Hun?” 

(Came  a voice  of  thunder,  ’twas  a British  Tommy’s 
roar : — 

“Bill,  they  won’t  take  stock  o’  clothes  on  St.  Helena’s 
Shore!”) 


A.  M.  L. 


SONGS  OP  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


173 


WHO  SMASHED  BILL  KAISER? 

Who  smashed  Bill  Kaiser?  “ I,  ” said  the  Allied  Army, 

“I  drove  him’  balmy! 

I smashed  Bill  Kaiser.” 

Then  the  nations  of  the  earth  rejoic’d  and  all  declar’d 
at  once, 

That  they  hadn’t  known  such  happiness  for  months  and 
months  and  months. 

When  they  heard  of  the  end  of  poor  Bill  Kaiser. 

Who  saw  him  smashed?  “I,”  said  the  yellow  press, 

“And  on  the  ‘factJ  I laid  much  stress — 

I saw  him  smashed.” 

And  the  devil  sent  a “wireless”  saying  ,“X  was  glad  to 
see  you  slate  ’im. 

For  if  he’d  conquered  earth  he’d  have  sent  me  an  ulti- 
matum!” 

When  he  heard  of  the  end  of  poor  Bill  Kaiser. 

Who’ll  toll  the  bell?  “I,”  said  Jack  Tar,  the  handy- 
man, 

“And  when  we’ve  brought  the  fleet  to  anchor, 

I’m  the  chap  to  pull  the  rope  of  Bill  the  Blooming 
Swanker 

I’ll  toll  the  bell.” 

Then  Japan  gave  up  her  pastime  of  collecting  bits  of 
China, 

And  the  European  Concert  played  a piece  in  Asia  Minor, 

When  they  heard  of  the  end  of  Poor  Bill  Kaiser. 

Who’ll  be  chief  mourner?  “I,”  said  Gunpowder 
Krupp, 

“ For  by  this  world- wide  conflict  I’ve  made  some  money, 

And  holding  Belgian  coast  towns  is  not  quite  all  honey, 
I’ll  be  chief  mourner,” 

Then  Tommy  Atkins  dropped  a tear,  and  said  “Now 
that  we’re  through  it, 

You  know  you  made  me  biff  you,  Bill,  I didn’t  want 
to  do  it.” 

When  he  heard  of  the  end  of  Poor  Bill  Kaiser. 

Who’ll  draw  his  insurance  money?  “I,”  said  Lloyd 
George, 

“I’m  the  very  chap  to  do  it, 


174 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Because  I always  did  believe  in  rare,  refreshing  fruit. 

I’ll  draw  his  insurance  money.” 

For  a “Place  in  the  sun”  Poor  Bill  Kaiser,  you’ve  been 
sighing 

And  you’ll  get  it  warm  enough  very  soon,  there’s  no 
denying. 

And  when  the  war  is  over,  while  you  wonder  at  your 
blunder, 

Singing,  not  “The  Watch  Upon  the  Rhine,”  but  “Get 
Out  and  Get  Under.” 

You’ll  be  clean  off  the  earth,  so  good-bye,  goodbye. 


RULE  BRITANNIA. 

When,  half  unknown,  our  little  world 
Through  warlike  times  had  darkly  whirled 
‘Mid  noisy  strife  of  Goth  and  Thun; 

When  Vandals  fierce  their  race  had  run; 
Venetian  sailors  slept  in  peace 
With  martial  warriors  of  Greece; 

The  sunny  slopes  of  sheltered  Gaul 
Had  seen  the  Romans  rise  and  fall, 

And  Saxon,  Angle,  Jute,  and  Dane 
To  Norman  yielded  Anglia’s  reign; 

Then  out  from  all  this  varied  throng 
Arose  a nation  that  was  strong — 

A nation  valiant,  bold,  and  free 
To  rule  as  Mistress  of  the  Sea, 

And  send  the  message  o’er  the  waves 
That  Britons  never  would  be  slaves, 

Such  was  the  birth  of  England,  which, 
With  Spirit  unalloyed  and  rich, 

Remains  as  in  the  days  of  yore — 

But  wedded  now,  from  shore  to  shore, 
With  sister  nations  who  unite 
To  manfully  uphold  the  Right. 

Scotland!  Of  independence  proud 
Who  never  yet  the  knee  hath  bowed 
To  conquering  host  by  sea  or  land 
Is  ready  yet  to  make  a stand 
For  Liberty;  and  side  by  side 
With  Erin’s  best  and  England’s  pride 
To  fight  the  battle  to  the  end. 

And  Ireland!  may  thy  fortunes  mend! 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR. 


175 


It  is  enough,  in  days  gone  by, 

To  know  thy  sons  could  do  or  die 
In  Britain’s  cause;  and  if  indeed 
There  grows  of  discontent  the  seed 
In  Erin’s  isle — pluck  out  the  weed! 
Cast  to  the  wind,  with  all  thy  woes. 
Until  the  blessed  shamrock  grows 
’Twined  with  the  thistle  and  the  rose. 
And  thus,  in  confident  array 
May  Britain  hold  the  foe  at  bay, 
Maintain  her  glorious  liberty. 

Her  flag  of  Empire  all  unfurled, 

Her  name  the  greatest  in  the  world — 
The  Mistress  of  the  Sea! 

J.  Reed,  in  "Glasgow  Weekly  Herald.” 


1915. 

H.  D.  Rawnsley  in  “London  Times.” 

Today  how  many  thousands  will  not  hear 

There  in  their  changeless,  timeless  world  of  light 
The  sad  year’s  solemn  passing  in  the  night, 

The  silent  coming  of  a happier  year. 

For  this  new  year,  though  full  of  woe  and  fear, 

Shall  prove  that  Right  has  triumphed  over  Might, 
Shall  see  an  end  of  war’s  accursed  blight 
And  Peace  among  the  nations  drawing  near. 

We  cannot  hear  their  voices,  clasp  their  hands, 

The  faces  that  we  loved  no  more  we  see; 

But  they  whose  names  are  bright  on  Honor’s  roll 
In  some  far  world  shall  know  we  reached  their  goal, 
That  nobler  for  their  deed  our  Empire  stands, 
Crowned  with  the  Will  that  set  all  Europe  free. 


THE  SOLDIER’S  WIDOW. 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead; 

She  nor  swoon’d  nor  utter’d  cry; 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"She  must  weep  or  she  will  die.” 


176 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 
Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee— 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears — 
“Sweet  my  child,  I live  for  thee.” 


ROBERTS,  V.C. 

As  kinsmen  in  some  common  grief, 

A world  of  warriors  bowed  their  crest, 
When  he,  who  was  of  chieftains  chief, 

Passed  to  his  rest. 

To  Thames  the  Ganges’  sacred  flood 
Called,  as  it  rolled  from  shrine  to  shrine, 
“He  was  of  us  in  all  but  blood — 

This  son  of  thine.” 

Full  fourscore  years  could  not  subdue 
His  martial  ardor,  nor  the  blast 
Of  bugle  find  him  less  than  true 
Unto  the  last. 

J.  G.  K. 


TO  OUR  FALLEN. 

Ye  sleepers,  who  will  sing  you? 

We  can  but  give  our  tears — 

Ye  dead  men,  who  shall  bring  you 
Fame  in  the  coming  years? 

Brave  souls  . . . but  who  remembers 

The  flame  that  fired  your  embers? 

Deep,  deep  the  sleep  that  holds  you 
Who  one  time  had  no  peers. 


General  Joffre 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


177 


Yet  maybe  Fame’s  but  seeming 
And  praise  you’d  set  aside, 

Content  to  go  on  dreaming, 

Yea,  happy  to  have  died 
If  of  all  things  you  prayed  for — 

All  things  your  valor  paid  for — 

One  prayer  is  not  forgotten, 

One  purchase  not  denied. 

But  God  grants  your  dear  England 
A strength  that  shall  not  cease 
Till  she  have  won  for  all  the  Earth 
From  ruthless  men  release, 

And  made  supreme  upon  her 
Mercy  and  Truth  and  Honor — 

Is  this  the  thing  you  died  for? 

Oh,  Brothers,  sleep  in  peace! 

“London  Times.” 

THE  LAST  MESSAGE. 

In  a distant  land,  and  hostile, 

Lies  a soldier  where  he  died; 

The  breezes  flutter  a paper 
In  the  sand  by  the  Hero’s  side. 

It  carries  a word  to  his  mother, 

For  the  man,  at  his  dying  knell, 

Had  written,  with  wounds  hot-burning, 
“Mother — we  conquered- — farewell! ” 

— Fliegende  Blaetter. 

FIELD  MARSHAL  EARL  ROBERTS. 

Tribute  to  his  memory  by  0.  S.,  in  “ Punch. 

He  died,  as  soldiers  die,  amid  the  strife, 
Mindful  of  England  in  his  latest  prayer; 
God,  of  His  love,  would  have  so  fair  a life 
Crowned  with  a death  as  fair. 

He  might  not  lead  the  battle  as  of  old, 

But,  as  of  old,  among  his  own  he  went, 
Breathing  a faith  that  never  once  grew  cold. 

A courage  still  unspent. 


178 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


So  was  his  end;  and,  in  that  hour,  across 
The  face  of  War  a wind  of  silence  blew, 

And  bitterest  foes  paid  tribute  to  the  loss 
Of  a great  heart  and  true. 

But  we  who  loved  him,  what  have  we  to  lay 
For  sign  of  worship  on  his  warrior-bier? 

What  homage,  could  his  lips  but  speak  today, 
Would  he  have  held  most  dear? 

Not  grief,  as  for  a life  untimely  reft; 

Not  vain  regret  for  counsel  given  in  vain; 

Not  pride  of  that  high  record  he  has  left, 

Peerless  and  pure  of  stain; 

But  service  of  our  lives  to  keep  her  free, 

The  land  he  served;  a pledge  above  his  grave 

To  give  her  even  such  a gift  as  he, 

The  soul  of  loyalty,  gave. 

That  oath  we  plight,  as  now  the  trumpets  swell 
His  requiem,  and  the  men-at-arms  stand  mute, 

And  through  the  mist  the  guns  he  loved  so  well 
Thunder  a last  salute! 


THE  CITY  OF  PEACE. 

Out  of  the  city  of  peace  the  nations  passed; 

By  the  slight  of  a traitorous  hand  the  die  was  cast; 

Nor  can  they  ever  return  as  they  went  out, 

When  the  guns  have  spoken,  and  silence  comes  at  last. 

The  ancient  tables  of  Justice  are  broke  in  twain— 
Have,  then,  these  tables  the  nations  built  in  vain? 

No!  If  the  blood  of  a million  wounds  must  flow, 
With  strenuous  hands  we  shall  build  them  up  again. 

A greater  city  of  peace  the  world  will  see, 

When  the  union  of  all  the  nations  will  set  them  free; 
When  thou,  oh,  Justice,  wilt  raise  thy  conquering 
throne, 

And  the  strongest  arm  that  rules  will  be  ruled  by  thee. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


179 


Out  of  the  chaos  of  war  the  nations  passed; 

The  battle  of  battles  was  fought,  and  the  die  was  cast; 

And  many  returned  no  more  that  first  went  out, 
When  the  guns  had  spoken,  and  silence  came  at  last. 

F.  M. 


BOBS. 

Rudyard  Kipling’s  magazine  verses  about  Lord  Roberts,  which  he  did  not 
reprint  in  book  form,  began  after  this  fashion: — 

There’s  a little,  red-faced  man, 

Which  is  Bobs, 

Rides  the  tallest  horse  he  can — 

That  is  Bobs; 

Though  it  bucks,  or  kicks,  or  rears, 

He  could  sit  for  twenty  years, 

With  a smile  round  both  his  ears — 

Can’t  yer,  Bobs? 

And  the  stanza  which  gave  the  verses  their  place  in  the  public  memory  ended: 

Though  he’s  little,  he  is  wise, 

He’s  a terror  for  his  size, 

And  he  doesn’t  advertise — 

Does  yer,  Bobs? 


THE  VICTORIA  CROSS. 

By  Sir  Edwin  Arnold  in  “Boston  Herald.” 

Now  listen!  all  ye  maidens  laughing-eyed, 

And  all  ye  English  mothers,  be  aware! 

Those  who  shall  pass  before  ye  at  noontide 
Your  friends  and  champions  are. 

The  men  of  all  the  army  and  the  fleet, 

The  very  bravest  of  the  very  brave, 

Linesman  and  lord— these  fought  with  equal  feet 
Firm-planted  on  their  grave. 

The  men  who,  setting  light  their  blood  and  breath 
So  they  might  win  a victor’s  haught  renown, 

Held  their  steel  straight  against  the  face  of  Death, 
And  frowned  his  frowning  down. 


180 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


And  some  who  climbed  the  deadly  glacis-side, 
For  all  that  steel  could  stay,  or  savage  shell; 
And  some,  whose  blood  upon  the  colors  dried 
Tells  if  they  bore  them  well; 

Some,  too,  who,  gentle-hearted  even  in  strife, 
Seeing  their  fellow  or  their  friend  go  down, 
Saved  his,  at  peril  of  their  own  dear  life, 

And  won  the  civic  crown. 

Well  done  for  them;  and,  fair  isle,  well  for  thee! 

While  that  thy  bosom  beareth  sons  like  those, 
“The  little  gems  set  in  the  silver  sea” 

Shall  never  fear  her  foes. 


TO  AN  UNKNOWN  SOLDIER. 

(From  the  French  of  Adrienne  Cambry,  a French 
Volunteer  Nurse.) 

Soldier,  Soldier,  dear  Unknown, 

I wonder  as  I knit, 

Will  you  be  a corporal 
Who  will  wear  this  mit? 

Will  you  be  a captain? 

Tell  him,  Mitten,  pray, 

That  in  your  simple  meshes 
I wove  my  heart  today. 

Wove  it  warm  and  throbbing, 

O gallant  soldier  mine! 

Praying  that  it  strengthen 

That  strong  right  hand  of  thine. 

Strong  to  strike  and  swift  to  strike 
And  strike  the  foe  away, 

Lay  on,  lay  on,  my  Soldier, 

Lay  on,  and  win  the  day! 

And  if  my  little  mitten 
Be  dyed  a deeper  red, 

Its  saffron  turned  to  crimson 
With  blood  in  honor  shed, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


181 


The  radiance  of  that  scarlet, 

The  glory  of  that  stain, 

Would  make  my  little  work-box 
Seem  like  a sacred  fane! 

So  here’s  my  little  mitten, 

Wool  to  keep  you  warm, 

Kisses  in  its  meshes 

To  keep  you,  dear,  from  harm. 

— “London  Express”  Translation. 


URGENT!  FROM  MR.  ATKINS. 

I’ve  bartered  all  my  buttons  away 
To  the  girls  in  the  nearest  village; 

Called  me  a ’ero  and  smiled  so  sweet, 

My  word!  it  was  downright  pillage. 

Now  I’m  feelin’  a bloomin’  draught, 
Thanks  to  me  youthful  sins; 

And  the  only  thing  that  can  save  me  name 
Is  a packet  of  safety  pins. 

Mufflers  ain’t  what  I’m  pinin’  for, 

Socks  I can  do  without, 

Folks  is  always  a’sendin’  them, 

Meanin’  it  well,  no  doubt. 

I’m  not  carin’  a tinker’s  cuss, 

At  riskin’  me  blooming  skin, 

But  I’ll  dashed  soon  be  in  a dead  blue  funk, 
If  I don’t  get  a safety  pin. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

The  Christmas  tree,  with  tinselled  boughs, 
Casts  shadows  in  the  gloom, 

While  wounded  toys  in  serried  ranks 
Pass  mutely  through  the  room. 

A jumping  jack  with  broken  hip 
Weeps  o’er  a headless  doll, 

An  automatic  dancing  bear 
Leans  spent  against  the  wall. 


182 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


A soldier  bows  before  his  fate, 

One  leg  off  at  the  knee, 

A rocking  horse  with  dappled  sides 
Stands  hamstrung  near  the  tree. 

And  in  his  bed  Sir  Five-Year-Old, 

Who  spreads  distress  and  gloom, 

Dreams  on  of  war,  while  wounded  toys 
Pass  mutely  through  the  room. 

H.  S.  Haskins. 

AN  ENGLISH  MOTHER’S  PRAYER— 1914 

By  Mrs.  J.  L.  McKenzie. 

Mrs.  McKenzie,  the  author  of  this  poem,  is  the  wife  of  a poor  English  farmer. 
It  was  sent  in  a letter  to  the  writer’s  sister,  Miss  Minnie  Stoner,  of  207  Mount- 
fort  Street,  Brookline,  to  whom  the  Boston  Post  is  indebted  for  the  privilege 
of  publishing  it. 

O Father,  send  Thy  holy  dove  of  comfort  to  our  Isle. 
Extend  thy  mercy  to  the  powers  at  war  on  land  the 
while. 

Thy  messenger  of  peace  send  forth  to  ev’ry  one  at  sea; 
And  solace  all  the  breaking  hearts  of  those  who  bow  the 
knee 

To  Thy  great  Throne. 

In  mercy  bend  thy  list’ning  ear  unto  the  orphan’s  cry. 
Let  wives  and  mothers  feel  thee  near  when  those  they 
love  must  die. 

Confound  this  enemy  of  ours  who  caused  the  endless 
strife; 

Who  slaughtered  woman,  man  and  child;  who  little 
recked  of  Life 

That  Thou  hadst  given. 

O Heavenly  Father,  set  our  land  once  more  free  from 
the  foe; 

And  give  us  comfort,  joy  and  peace,  and  make  us  all 
to  know 

That  Thou  art  Ruler  over  all,  the  earth,  the  sky,  the  sea. 
Thy  mercy  shed  upon  our  King,  our  ministers  let  see 
That  those  who  work  for  love  and  peace,  are  working, 
too,  for  Thee. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


183 


We  beg  Thy  mercy  for  all  sin; 

We  ask  Thee  for  Thy  grace 
To  help  each  one  a home  to  win 
Within  Thy  heavenly  place 
Of  comfort,  love,  and  peace,  and  mirth; 

A haven  free  from  care. 

May  all  those  parted  souls  on  earth 
Meet  one  another  there. 


BAGPIPES. 

By  Nelson  Jackson. 

There’s  an  instrument  known  as  the  bagpipes,  ye  ken, 
It  hails  frae  auld  Scotland  ava; 

It  has  a terrific  effect  on  her  men, 

For  it  sends  them  all  fleein’  awa’. 

When  the  pipes  skirl  the  Scots  into  battle,  ye  ken, 

It  isna  wi’  valor  they’re  filled; 

“Oor  national  instrument’s  at  it  again,” 

They  say,  “let’s  awa’  an  get  killed.” 

Tweedle-eedle-eedle-eedle, 

Iddley-iddley-aye — 

Which  isn’t  exactly  a witty  remark, 

But  it’s  what  the  pipes  say  when  they  play. 

The  heather  turns  purple  as  soon  as  it  hears 
Its  chanters,  and  triplings,  and  drones; 

And  sleeping  bairns  waken,  and  wallow  in  tears, 

And  screechings,  and  infantile  moans. 

It’s  a music  that  hasn’t  a key,  or  a clef, 

In  a scale  that’s  designed  to  appal; 

But  it’s  greatly  enjoyed  by  the  dumb  and  the  deaf, 
Because  they  can’t  hear  it  at  all. 

Tweedle-eedle-eedle-eedle, 

Iddley-iddley-aye — 

Its,  maybe,  the  bagpipes’  idea  of  a joke, 

But  it’s  what  the  pipes  say  when  they  play. 

It  starts  with  a groan  from  the  bottomless  pit, 

Where  all  the  unrighteous  are  slammed, 

And  when  it  warms  up  to  its  work,  and  is  fit, 

It  wails  with  the  shrieks  of  the  damned. 


184 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Its  pitch  isn’t  in  any  recognized  key, 

It  knocks  any  tune  on  the  head; 

It  only  brings  comfort,  betwixt  you  and  me, 

To  the  peaceful  and  passively  dead. 

Tweedle-eedle-eedle-eedle, 

Iddley-iddley-aye — 

Which  isn’t  romantic  I’m  bound  to  admit, 
But  it’s  what  the  pipes  say  when  they  play. 

E — e aaaarrrrrrrrr. 


SAT  ON  A THISTLE. 

FROM  THE  BOMBAY  EXAMINER. 

Inspired  by  the  famous  question  how  to  pronounce  “Przemysl”  a corres- 
pondent has  created  the  following: 

A dmzl  who  dwlt  in  Pryzemysl 
Indvrtntly  sat  on  a thysl: 

Tho  it  certnly  paind, 

A shrk  she  rstraind 
And  contntd  hrslf  wth  a whysl. 


WHY  WOMEN  ARE  WAISTLESS  IN  WAR  TIMES. 

From  Paris — sartorial  centre  of  taste — 

We  hear  that  the  gowns  have  this  winter  no  waist, 

But  a slim  long  straight  line  from  the  shoulder  to  hem, 
Is  the  style  that  in  war-time  distinguishes  them. 

I need  not  point  out  the  most  obvious  reason 
Why  women  are  waistless  this  soldiering  season, 

For  where  is  the  use  of  a waist  when,  confound  it, 
There  isn’t  a man  left  to  put  his  arm  round  it! 

But  after  the  war,  when  the  Tommies  return. 

These  straighBup-and-down  frocks  the  ladies  will  spurn. 
The  girls,  like  the  gowns,  will  revise  all  their  tastes, 
And  both  be  in  fashion  with  tightly  squeezed  waists. 

E.  S.  M. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


185 


A PRAYER. 

George  Willard  Bonte. 

God  of  our  fathers,  intervene; 

Stretch  forth  Thy  staying  hands; 

Blood  of  our  brothers  flows  between 
The  bounds  of  kindred  lands, 

And  tears,  oh  the  tears  of  mothers  and  wives, 

Are  rusting  the  blades  of  our  harvest  knives; 

God  of  our  fathers,  grant  us  peace— 

Smother  the  fiery  brands. 

Christ,  Lord  and  Master,  Prince  of  Peace, 
Vanquish  the  god  of  war. 

Bid  the  red  clouds  of  rage  surcease 
Where  mad  iron  eagles  soar. 

Silence  the  blasts  of  the  hellish  siege  guns — 

Boasting  the  slaying  of  thousands  of  sons; 

Christ,  Lord  and  Master,  heal  our  wounds — 
Silence  the  battle’s  roar. 

Lord  of  the  Nations,  bring  us  years 
Of  peace,  goodwill  and  toil; 

Lead  us  from  out  this  vale  of  tears — 

Bless  Thou  the  corpse-strewn  soil. 

End  the  wild  orgy  of  carnage  and  hate; 

Steer  to  safe  harbors  the  wrecked  ships  of  state; 

Lord  of  the  Nations,  hear  our  prayer — 

Quiet  the  World’s  turmoil. 


From  “ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WELLINGTON.” 

A people’s  voice!  we  are  a people  yet. 

Tho’  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  forget, 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless  Powers; 
Thank  Llim  who  isled  us  here,  and  roughly  set 
His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming  showers, 

We  have  a voice,  with  which  to  pay  the  debt 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept  it  ours, 
And  keep  it  ours,  O God,  from  brute  control; 

0 Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the  soul 
Of  Europe,  keep  cur  noble  England  whole, 

And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom  sown 


186 


SONGS  OP  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Betwixt  a people  and  their  ancient  throne, 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there  springs 
Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings; 

For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 

And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of  mind, 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns  be  just. 

— Tennyson. 


FROM  MAUD. 

Tennyson. 

Let  it  go  or  stay,  so  I wake  to  the  higher  aims 
Of  a land  that  has  lost  for  a little  her  lust  of  gold 
And  love  of  a peace  that  was  full  of  wrongs,  and  shames 
Horrible,  hateful,  monstrous,  not  to  be  told; 

And  hail  once  more  the  banner  of  battle  unroll’d! 

Tho’  many  a light  shall  darken,  and  many  shall  weep 
For  those  that  are  crush’d  in  the  clash  of  jarring  claims, 
Yet  God’s  just  wrath  shall  be  wreak’d  on  a giant  liar; 
And  many  a darkness  into  the  light  shall  leap, 

And  shine  in  the  sudden  making  of  splendid  names, 
And  noble  thought  be  freer  under  the  sun, 

And  the  heart  of  a people  beat  with  one  desire. 

Let  it  dame  or  fade,  and  the  war  roll  down  like  a wind, 
We  have  proved  we  have  hearts  in  a cause,  we  are  noble 
still, 

And  myself  have  awakened,  as  it  seems,  to  the  better 
mind; 

It  is  better  to  fight  for  the  good  than  to  rail  at  the  ill; 

I have  felt  with  my  native  land,  I am  one  with  my  kind, 
I embrace  the  purpose  of  God,  and  the  doom  assign’d. 

LAY  OF  SIR  W.  WALLACE. 

Not  few  nor  slight  his  burdens  are 
Who  gives  himself  to  stand, 

Steadfast  and  sleepless  as  a star, 

Watching  his  fatherland; 

Strong  must  his  will  be,  and  serene, 

His  spirit  pure  and  bright, 

His  conscience  vigilant  and  keen, 

His  arm  an  arm  of  might. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


187 


And  his  shall  be  a holier  meed 
Than  earthly  lips  may  tell ; — 

Not  in  the  end,  but  in  the  deed, 

Doth  truest  honor  dwell. 

His  land  is  one  vast  monument, 

Bearing  the  record  high 
Of  a spirit  with  itself  content, 

And  a name  that  cannot  die! 

For  this,  with  joyous  heart,  I give 
Fame,  pleasure,  love,  and  life; 

Blest  for  a cause  so  high,  to  live 
In  ceaseless,  hopeless  strife; 

For  this  to  die,  with  sword  in  hand, 

Oh,  blessed  and  honored  thrice! 

God,  countrymen,  and  fatherland, 

Accept  the  sacrifice! 

M.  B.  Smedley. 

A SCOTCH  LASSIE’S  PRAYER 
FOR  THE  MEN  AT  THE  FRONT. 

Oh,  God  of  Mercy!  guard  our  men; 

Be  near  them  where  they  go, 

And  give  them  courage,  faith  and  strength; 
The  noblest  path  them  show. 

Be  with  them  in  their  hour  of  need, 

Whether  on  land  or  sea, 

Oh!  lead  them  with  Thy  mighty  arm, 

And  grant  them  victory. 

Protect  the  Allied  Forces,  Lord, 

And  if  it  be  Thy  will, 

Send  all  our  soldiers  safely  back, 

That  we  may  have  them  still. 

Prevent  more  awful  slaughtering, 

And  govern  Thou  the  fight; 

If  Thou  art  with  our  soldiers,  Lord, 

Then  all  things  will  come  right. 

Those  warriors  whom  thou’st  taken  home, 
From  turbulent  war  to  rest — 

We  pray  that  they  have  found  that  peace 
On  Jesus’  loving  breast. 


188 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Forgive  their  vengeful  foemen,  Lord, 

Though  it  is  hard  to  say; 

Give  comfort  to  all  mourning  hearts, 

Who’ve  loved  ones  in  the  fray. 

Grant  us  Thy  grace — we  need  it  sore — 

And  bless  us  every  one; 

And  if  Thou  call’st  our  dear  ones  home— 

So  let  Thy  will  be  done. 

Delicia  Chisholm  (Aged  16). 

In  Inverness  “ Football  Times.” 


COLUMBIA. 

Columbia!  though  all  the  world  doth  rage, 

Thou  art  our  rock  of  everlasting  peace; 

When  the  grim  grapple  of  the  czars  shall  cease, 
And  Slav  and  Teuton  stagger  from  the  stage, 
Bespoiled  sisters  of  a shamed  age, — 

Thy  fields  shall  flower  and  thy  bounds  increase 
In  hereditaments  of  loving  lease; 

Oh,  let  they  holy  purpose  still  engage 
To  be  a pacificator  of  all  men, 

Thy  ports  the  haven  of  the  meek  and  low, 

Thy  happy  hearthstone  ever  radiant  when 

The  children  gather  at  the  firelight  glow; 
COLUMBIA,  rear  thou  each  loyal  son, 

Of  Lincoln’s  mold  and  mighty  Washington. 

— Robert  Loveman  in  January  “Nautilus.” 


EUROPE. 

Scourge  me  not  if  in  my  lay 
Only  discords  harsh  I pen! 

Hastens  here  the  Christmas  day — 
Shall  I — can  I truly  say 

“Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men?” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


189 


Mock  my  sorrow  if  you  will — 

I can  only  sorrow  tell. 

Bid  the  jovial  wind  be  still! 

With  what  message  dare  it  thrill? 

Peace  on  earth — when  earth  is  hell! 

Hell  of  war  and  weary  strife! 

Hell  of  hearts  with  anguish  wrung! 

Is  there  peace  for  child  or  wife? 

Death,  gaunt  death!  Life,  life  for  life! 

Why  to  empty  carols  cling? 

Peace!  Good  will!  When  through  the  earth 
Misery  on  carnage  feasts! 

Why  the  song  of  joy  and  mirth? 

What  are  lying  carols  worth? 

Peace  on  earth — good  will  to — beasts. 

— Ltjrana  Sheldon  in  “New  York  Times.” 


WATERLOO  AND  ST.  QUENTIN. 

Right  high  our  Scottish  hearts  have  thrilled 
At  the  tale  oft  told  and  true, 
blow  the  “gallant  Greys”  mid  battle’s  blaze 
Charged  headlong  at  Waterloo. 

Their  battle-cry  from  that  far-off  field 
Down  the  century  has  rung  clear, 

And  more  than  an  echo  again  it  sounds 
In  proud  old  Scotland’s  ear. 

By  their  stirrup-leathers  our  Highland  lads 
Rushed  with  them  on  the  foe; 

The  kilt,  the  plaid,  and  uplifted  blade 
In  pell-mell  charge  did  go — 

The  sons  of  the  North,  both  horse  and  foot, 

Gave  voice  to  that  well-known  cry 
That  told  to  the  sulphurous  flame-streaked  field 
How  Scotsmen  do  or  die. 

Now  the  scene  has  changed;  old  foes  are  friends, 
And  with  us,  side  by  side, 

Meet  the  German  hosts  that  bragging  boast 
Over  Britain  and  France  to  ride, 


190 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


And  the  “Greys”  with  the  Highland  lads  again 
Are  where  they  are  ever  found — 

At  the  front,  as  they  were  at  Waterloo, 

On  Belgium’s  blood-soaked  ground. 

Once  more  they  have  on  the  stage  of  life, 

In  the  role  their  fathers  played, 

Together  in  fight  for  their  country’s  right 
The  self-same  wild  charge  made; 

The  thundering  horse  and  the  rushing  foot 
As  one  on  the  foeman  fell. 

And  over  all  as  at  Waterloo, 

Rose  the  slogan  we  know  so  well. 

Ah,  Britain,  home  of  the  free  and  brave, 

Right  proud  thou  can’st  but  be, 

That  the  hardy  North  such  sons  sends  forth 
To  fight  and  die  for  thee; 

And  Scotland,  thou  land  that  gav’st  them  birth, 
Where  those  heroes  first  breath  drew, 
Remember  forever  their  names  are  bound 
With  St.  Quentin  and  Waterloo. 

W.  M.  COCKBURN. 

TO  THE  ENEMY,  ON  HIS  ACHIEVEMENT. 

Now  wanes  the  third  moon  since  your  conquering  host 
Was  to  have  laid  our  weakling  army  low, 

And  walked  through  France  at  will.  For  that  loud 
boast 

What  have  you  got  to  show? 

A bomb  that  chipped  a tower  of  Notre  Dame, 

Leaving  its  mark  like  tripper’s  knives  that  scar 
The  haunts  of  beauty — that’s  the  best  reclame 
You  have  achieved  so  far. 

Paris,  that  through  her  humbled  Triumph-Arch 
Was  doomed  to  see  you  tread  your  father’s  tracks — 
Paris,  your  goal,  now  lies  a six  days’  march 
Behind  your  homing  backs. 

Pressed  to  the  borders  where  you  lastly  passed 
Bulging  with  insolence  and  fat  with  pride, 

You  stake  your  all  upon  a desperate  cast 
To  stem  the  gathering  tide. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


191 


Eastward  the  Russian  draws  you  to  his  fold, 

Content,  on  his  own  ground,  to  bide  his  day, 

Out  of  whose  toils  not  many  feet  of  old 
Found  the  returning  way. 

And  still  along  the  seas  our  watchers  keep 

Their  grip  upon  your  throat  with  bands  of  steel, 
While  that  Armada,  which  should  rake  the  deep, 
Skulks  in  its  hole  at  Kiel. 

So  stands  your  record — stay,  I cry  you  grace — 

I wronged  you.  There  is  Belgium,  where  your  sword 
Has  bled  to  death  a free  and  gallant  race 
Whose  life  you  held  in  ward; 

Where  on  your  trail  the  smoking  land  lies  bare 

Of  hearth  and  homestead,  and  the  dead  babe  clings 
About  its  murdered  mother’s  breast — ah,  there, 

Yes,  you  have  done  great  things! 

Sir  Owen  Seaman  in  “Punch.” 


OUR  BLESSED  SLAIN. 

"Love  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law.” 

"Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a man  lay  down  his  life  for  his 
friend.” 

In  the  fields  of  peace  hereafter 
They  shall  shine  forth  as  the  sun; 

Fear  not,  as  they  passed  the  Master 
Greeted  them  with  His  “Well  done!” 

“Brethren,  love  ye  one  another” 

Was  the  last  command  He  gave; 

Greatest  love  is  his  who  freely 
Gives  his  life  his  friends  to  save. 

Life  they  gave  for  friends  and  kindred, 

For  right  and  truth  they  faced  the  strife; 

God  will  surely  to  the  faithful 
Give  His  promised  crown  of  life. 

Comes  a day  when  creeds,  nor  faiths, 

Nor  Ophir’s  gold,  nor  schools’  degree 

Will  weigh  against  the  wondrous  love 
Of  hearts  that  fell  thus,  true  and  free. 


192 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


In  that  day  the  Lord  of  Love, 

Who  gave  His  life  for  Eden’s  stain, 

Will  bind  up  every  broken  heart, 

And  give  us  back  our  blessed  slain. 

We  wait  the  day.  But  sorrow  says — 

Raise  ye  love’s  incense  o’er  their  graves. 
Heart-storm  and  tears  love’s  incense  is; 

Lord,  calm  us,  as  Thou  dids’t  the  waves. 

The  din  of  war  is  at  our  hearts, 

Now  faints  our  faith,  our  hope  would  fail; 
But  love  takes  up  the  bitter  cup, 

And  lo!  it  is  the  Holy  Grail. 

Abide  about  the  battle,  Lord; 

In  life,  in  death  our  soldiers  stay; 

We,  watching,  listen  for  Thy  voice — 

In  peace,  speak  soon,  we  humbly  pray. 
Inverness,  21st  September,  1914.  Margaret  Colvin. 


IN  TIME  OF  PERIL. 

Oh!  Cross  of  Christ!  our  emblem  be 
In  these  dread  days  of  misery! 

And  by  Thine  own  illuming  ray! 

Turn  darkest  night  to  gladsome  day! 

Our  foes  dispel,  our  land  protect, 

Our  armies  strengthen  and  direct! 

Oh!  Cross  of  Christ!  our  emblem  be, 

And  lead  us  on  to  victory! 

Oh!  Cross  of  Christ!  upon  us  all 
Let  Thy  healing  shadow  fall! 

Sheltered  there  may  we  abide, 

Safe  whatever  may  betide! 

From  Christless  hordes,  and  all  who  would 
Our  faith  destroy,  Oh!  Blessed  Rood, 
Defend  us,  and  our  emblem  be, 

And  lead  us  on  to  victory! 

Helen  Pearson. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


193 


WAR  AND  THE  WOMAN. 

The  fife  and  drum,  the  banners  fine, 

Spur  on  the  men  in  warring  line 
Until  the  battle’s  lost  or  won; 

But  out  in  lonely  hamlets  wait 
Those  who  can  only  guess  the  fate 
Of  father,  brother,  lover,  son. 

The  Red  Cross  nurses  gladly  go 
To  ease  the  pain  of  those  laid  low 
By  murd’rous  shell  and  gun  and  dart, 
But  science  has  no  surgery 
That  for  a moment  can  set  free 
A waiting  woman’s  grief-torn  heart. 

The  soldiers  in  the  deadly  fight 
Soon  grow  accustomed  to  the  sight 
Of  wounded  men  and  ghastly  dead, 

But  daily  deeper  grows  the  pain 
That  rends  a mother’s  heart  in  twain 
When  children  cry  in  vain  for  bread. 

0 God  of  nations,  grant,  we  pray, 

That  there  may  be  some  speedy  way 
Of  quieting  this  warring  host; 

And  meanwhile  grant  Thy  special  care 
To  war-robed  women  everywhere, 

For  they  it  is  who  suffer  most. 

“ Christian  Herald.  ” 

ST.  ANDREW’S  DAY. 

North — where  the  Ice  King  reigns, 
South — ’neath  the  sun’s  fierce  blaze, 
West- — where  they  reaped  the  fruitful  plains, 
East — with  its  olden  ways, 

In  busy  street  or  outpost  wild 

St.  Andrew’s  Day  calls  Scotland’s  child. 

Calling  with  voice  of  home, 

Speaking  the  mother-tongue, 

Breathing  across  the  ocean  foam 
Songs  in  their  childhood  sung. 

St.  Andrew’s  Day  to  Scots  hearts  true 
Makes  dear  remembrance  bloom  anew. 


194 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


One  with  their  kin  at  home 
In  the  dear  native  land, 

One  for  the  truth  where’er  they  roam 
Scotia  bids  them  stand. 

By  road  and  hearth,  from  pleasure’s  halls 
St.  Andrew’s  Day  to  duty  calls. 

Now  while  the  war-tide  flows 
Wildly  on  land  and  sea, 

Scotia’s  sons  give  trothless  foes 
Battle  to  keep  her  free. 

’Neath  Southern  Cross  or  Northern  Plough 
St.  Andrew’s  Day  calls  Scots  hearts  now. 

Anita  Stuart. 


YIS! 

Whin  the  war  firsht  began 
I wud  grab  for  me  paper, 

’Twas  not  enough  r’adin’ 

Thot  I cud  get  thin; 

But  now  I’m  not  carin’ 

To  follow  the  caper; 

Bad  cess  to  the  boonch! 

Shure,  the  war  is  a sin! 

An’  ivery  wan  av  thim  kings  is  a slob! 

They  can  go  to  the  divil ! They  cost  me  me  job! 

Olin  L.  Lyman. 

“New  York  Sun,”  Dec.  29th,  1914. 


WAR  LESSONS. 

I wadna  be  surprised  ava’ 

If  plenty  ere  the  war  is  won 
Can  crack  o’  Mens  and  Charleroi, 

That  couldna  name  the  ports  o’  ca, 

Frae  Gourock  to  Kilmun. 

And  Marne  and  Aisne  and  Meuse  they’ll  track 
Between  their  towns  on  ilka  side, 

That  maun  to  avizandum  tak’ 

Whilk  Cart  is  White,  and  whilk  is  Black, 

And  whaur  they  join  the  Clyde! 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


195 


Kilconquhar  maun  be  pensioned  noo; 

When,  ere  the  papers  can  be  read, 

We  maun  be  educatit  how 

Far  fanklet  names  to  shape  our  mou’ 

That  start  wi’  P-r-z! 

Ill  win’s  blaw  some  ane  guid:  and  till 
The  bairns  are  tell’t  that  a’  is  by, 

And  war-map  fever  starts  to  cuil, 

The  easiest  job  in  ilka  schule 
Is  teachin’  Jography! 

W.  W. 


“THE  SCUM.” 

Dedicated  to  those  “Holy  Willie”  Patriots  (?)  who  delight  in  referring  tc 
our  Soldiers,  Volunteer  or  Regular,  as  “Scum.” 

It’s  only  the  “Scum”  goes  out  to  fight, 

While  their  “betters,”  safe  at  home,  sit  tight! 
Aye,  but,  though  “scum,”  every  man  is  white- — 
White  through  and  through; 

And  they  will  prove  in  the  days  to  come, 

’Mid  shrieking  shells  and  the  battle’s  hum, 

That  they  are  men,  though  only  the  scum— 

Men  staunch  and  true! 

But  need  they  fight,  these  men,  if  they  choose? 
What  do  they  stand  to  win  or  to  lose? 

Nought — They  had  the  same  right  to  refuse 
As  you,  these  Scum; 

But  their  love  of  home  and  all  held  dear 
Left  no  room  in  their  hearts  for  craven  fear— 

So  off  they  went,  with  a British  cheer, 

To  tuck  of  drum! 

But  stop!  Let’s  think:  It’s  a wide  word  “Scum:” 
Just  let’s  consider  from  what  they  come — 

From  cottage  and  villa,  from  castle  and  slum, 
From  field  and  farm, 

From  shipyard  and  mine,  from  office  stool, 

Sons  of  the  manse,  from  college  and  school, 

Men  bred  to  obey,  men  born  to  rule: 

All  keen  to  arm. 


196 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


From  Canada’s  plains  they  volunteer, 

The  Indian  Prince  sends  lance  and  spear, 

From  Australia  bush  the  cry  we  hear — 

All  want  to  come. 

Not  that  they=ve  aught  to  fear,  ’tis  true, 

But  they  wish  to  help  to  see  this  through, 

And  stop  this  monster  that’s  threatening  YOU!!! 
Well  done!  the  Scum!! 

Strathaven.  Jas.  E.  Stewart. 


SURVIVAL  OF  THE  UNFIT. 


The  War  Office  is  considering  a proposal  to  issue  to  volunteers  who  have 
been  rejected  by  the  doctor  a badge  to  be  worn  as  evidence  of  patriotism. 

Thomas  and  I adored  the  self-same  maiden: 

And  when  of  late  the  war-blast  filled  the  air, 

We  cried  ensemble,  with  loyal  fervor  laden, 

“None  but  the  brave — that’s  me — deserves  the  fair!” 
Then  swift  we  swelled  the  vast  recruiting  crowd; 

And  Thomas  passed  the  doctor.  5 was  ploughed. 

What  envious  rage  was  mine!  What  crimson  curses 
I cast  upon  my  leal  (but  narrow)  chest! 

When,  lo  a boon!  The  author  of  these  verses 
Received  a badge  (to  show  he’d  done  his  best). 

And  Phyllis  honors,  knowing  what  it  means, 

That  emblem  of  the  “King’s  Own  Might-Have-Beens!” 

When,  dove-like,  peace  returns,  and  pseans  mingle 
With  thankful  prayers,  and  Thomas  comes  again, 

In  swagger  uniform,  with  spurs  a-jingle, 

To  claim  the  maiden,  he  shall  come  in  vain: 

For  she  and  I who  (nearly)  braved  the  strife, 

Shall  then  be  man  (or  half  a man)  and  wife ! 

“London  Opinion.”  Gilbert  Hy.  Collins. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


197 


SONG  OF  DEATH. 

By  Robert  Burns. 

(Scene — a field  of  battle.  Time— evening.  The  wounded  and  dying  of  the 
victorious  army  are  supposed  to  join  in  the  song.  The  Gaelic  air,  to  which 
the  poet  beat  out  its  rhythm  as  he  wrote,  signifies  literally  the  Song  of  Death.) 

Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth,  and  ye  skies, 
Now  gay  with  the  broad  setting  sun; 

Farewell  loves  and  friendships — ye  dear,  tender  ties — 
Our  race  of  existence  is  run. 

Thou  grim  king  of  terrors,  thou  life’s  gloomy  foe, 

Go  frighten  the  coward  and  slave; 

Go,  teach  them  to  tremble,  fell  tyrant!  but  know. 

No  terrors  hast  thou  for  the  brave! 

Thou  strik’st  the  poor  peasant — he  sinks  in  the  dark, 
Nor  saves  e’en  the  wreck  of  a name; 

Thou  strik’st  the  young  hero — a glorious  mark! 

He  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame. 

In  the  field  of  proud  honor,  our  swords  in  our  hands, 
Our  king  and  our  country  to  save — 

While  victory  shines  on  life’s  last  ebbing  sands — 

Oh!  who  would  not  die  with  the  brave? 

ALL  IS  WELL. 

Doubt  asks  of  Faith;  “Why  are  we  flung 
To  meet  red  warfare’s  fiery  breath, 

Where  groans  and  wounds  and  flaming  death 
Revile  the  Hell  which  poets  sung?” 

Then  Faith  replies:  ‘Yet  all  is  well; 

Through  this  Death-Valley  you  must  go 
If  you  fair  Paradise  would  know. 

The  way  to  Heaven  runs  straight  through  Hell;’ 

The  Vale  of  Death  hath  potent  spell 
To  bow  the  neck  of  hardened  pride, 

To  make  a tender  love  and  wide, 

Yea  find  a way  to  Heaven  through  Hell. 

To  stay  the  tyrant  greed  of  pelf, 

Life’s  noble  dreams  to  re-create, 

Life’s  values  to  proportionate, 

To  find  true  life  in  loss  of  self. 


198 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


To  overlook  earth’s  narrow  rim, 

To  grasp  anew  the  guiding  rod, 

To  make  us  all  remember  God, 

To  learn  the  life  which  is  in  Him. 

— Bishop  Boyd  Carpenter. 


THE  REAL  SCOT. 

I am  a Scot  frae  the  land  o’  the  Gael, 

As  proud  o’  my  country,  as  knight  o’  his  mail 
My  accent  betrays  me,  my  tartan  ye  hail, 
But  shame  ne’er  befa’  me, 

I’m  proud  o’  the  land  o’  the  thistle  and  kail, 
An’  your  blessing  beca’  me. 

I’m  proud  o’  my  country,  proud  o’  her  name, 
I’m  proud  o’  her  deeds,  and  proud  o’  her  fame; 
No  tyrant  shall  ever  put  her  to  shame, 

While  Scotsmen  are  freemen. 

For  freedom  and  love  o’  his  Scottish  hame 
He’ll  fight  like  a demon. 

Away  with  your  titles  of  high  degree, 

A rough,  ready  Scot  will  do  well  for  me, 

A tarn  on  my  head,  a kilt  on  my  knee, 

An’  far  may  ye  ken  me, 

With  just  a wee  drap  o’  oor  hamely  “bree” 
Wherever  ye  sen’  me. 

My  dirk  by  my  side,  my  trusty  claymore, 

My  slogan  the  cry  of  “Scots  to  the  fore!” 
Scotch  to  the  backbone  and  loyal  to  the  core, 
Wha  wud  dare  to  face  me? 

But  my  bones  shall  rot  on  a foreign  shore 
Ere  I shall  disgrace  ye! 

O,  sons  of  the  heather,  long  may  ye  be 
The  flower  and  emblem  of  all  Christendee, 

An  undaunted  heart,  an  unbending  knee 
By  birth  ye  inherit, 

A Scotsman’s  motto,  and  right  to  be  free 
Is  glorious  merit ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


199 


0,  Scotsman!  a Scotsman’s  last  message  hear — 
Ne’er  stain  the  name  o’  your  country  so  dear, 
Her  undying  glory  uphold  far  and  near, 

And  sully  it  never; 

Your  fort  be  the  heroic,  ringing  cheer 
Of  “Scotland  for  ever!” 

Long  live  the  name  and  the  fame  o’  a Scot, 
Who  hails  frae  the  land  o’  old  John  o’  Groat, 
His  pipes  ever  skirl  the  clarion  note 
Of  vic’try  and  glory, 

His  doric  tell  loudest  how  nobly  he  fought, 

In  proud  martial  story! 

Milngavie.  J.  D.  S. 

“Glasgow  Weekly  Herald.” 


THE  NEW  YEAR  (1915.) 

Into  a heritage  of  strife, 

Of  trenches  filled  with  human  souls, 

Of  bitter  disregard  of  life, 

Of  hate  that  doesn’t  count  the  tolls, 

Of  seas  strewn  thick  with  deadly  mines 
And  homes  by  grief  and  sorrow  torn, 

A world  where  little  mercy  shines 
A bright  New  Year  is  born. 

Sad  is  the  grim  old  year’s  bequest, 

Bloody  the  record  of  its  toil; 

Much  of  its  manhood  lies  at  rest 
In  bitterly  contested  soil. 

Many  the  hopes  that  fired  the  young 
Of  but  a short  twelve  months  ago 
Have  heard  their  solemn  requiem  sung 
And  vanished  in  a wail  of  woe. 

Here  is  the  failure  of  the  age 

That  now  you  come  to  gaze  upon! 

You  find  a sad  and  sorry  page 

To  mark  the  year  that’s  traveled  on. 
You  find  a world  that’s  backward  stepped, 
A world  that’s  faltered  in  the  test, 

A weakling  world  that  hasn’t  kept 
Its  standard  up  to  what  is  best. 


200 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Sad  is  the  heritage  you  get, 

Bitter  the  scenes  that  you  must  view, 
Red  runs  war  riot  here,  and  yet 

Great  is  the  work  that  waits  for  you. 
Yours  is  the  task  to  end  the  strife. 

To  win  to  peace  a world  forlorn, 

To  still  the  blatant  drum  and  fife 
And  dull  the  cruel  sword  of  scorn, 

— Edgar  A.  Geest  in  “Detroit  Free  Press.” 


A PRAYER  FROM  THE  LINE. 


“The  soldier  in  the  trench  doesn’t  fear  death;  he  courts  it  as  an  end  to  his 
misery.” — Herbert  Corey,  Boston  Globe  correspondent  at  the  front. 

Give  us,  0 God  of  the  night — and  the  fight- — 

Give  us  no  leaven  of  Heaven  to  own; 

Give  us  no  crown,  though  it  be  in  Thy  light; 

Give  us  no  seat,  though  it  be  at  Thy  throne. 

Give  us  the  range  of  the  volleying  shell; 

Give  us — beyond  the  last  echo  infernal 
Give  us  a grave  that  is  deeper  than  Hell ; 

Give  us  a sleep  that  is  dreamless,  eternal. 


THE  FAREWELL. 

We  used  to  say  “Well,  toodle-oo; 

My  love  to  all,  remember.” 

The  same  old  phrases,  nothing  new, 

From  May  to  dark  December. 

“Good-bye,  be  good,  and  mind  you  write,” 
We  never  tired  of  calling; 

While  “See  you  Sunday”  sounded  bright 
And  kept  our  tears  from  falling. 

And  just  as  these  are  getting  stale 
And  worn,  our  need  is  well  met; 

This  phrase  to  please  will  never  fail — 
“Bring  back  a German  helmet!” 

Grace  Golden. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


201 


A REAL  SCOTCH  REEL. 


A valued  Scotch  contributor  to  the  “London  Times”  has  sent  that  paper 
a new  Scotch  reel,  inspired  by  the  piper  of  the  Highlanders  whom  he  met  at 
Melun.  It  has  a real  reel  lilt  to  it  and  is  in  part  as  follows: — 

Dance,  since  ye’re  dancing,  William, 

Dance  up  and  doon, 

Set  to  your  partners,  William, 

We’ll  play  the  tune! 

See,  make  a bow  to  Paris, 

Here’s  Antwerp-toon; 

Off  to  the  Gulf  of  Riga, 

Back  to  Verdun— 

Ay,  but  I’m  thinking,  laddie, 

Ye’ll  use  your  shoon! 

Dance,  since  ye’re  dancing,  William, 

Dance  up  and  doon, 

Set  to  your  partners,  William, 

We’ll  play  the  tune! 

What!  Wad  ye  stop  the  pipers? 

Nay,  ’tis  ower-soon! 

Dance,  since  you’re  dancing,  William, 
Dance,  ye  puir  loon! 

Dance  till  you’re  dizzy,  William, 
Dance  till  ye  swoon! 

Dance  till  ye’re  dead,  my  laddie! 

We  play  the  tune! 


THE  WAR  BUDGET. 

Hodge  waded  through  the  weekly  news, 
“The  income  tax,”  he  said; 

“That’s  nowt  to  me,  I shallunt  lose, 
’Twill  hit  the  boss  instead. 

Lloyd  Garge  he  be  the  man  for  I, 

Us  poor  have  now’t  to  fear.” 

He  paused,  then  gave  a dismal  cry; 
“They’re  goin’  to  tax  my  beer!” 

“A  good  thing,  too!”  replied  his  wife; 

“ ’Twill  keep  you  from  the  pub, 
Swilling  each  evening  of  your  life 
While  I work  at  the  tub!” 


202 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Across  the  ingle  nook  she  reached 
The  welcome  news  to  see, 

Then,  in  resentful  clamor  screeched: 
“Threepence  a pound  on  tea!” 

Moral: 

To  foot  the  bill  it’s  only  fair 

That  everyone  should  do  their  share, 
And  since  we  all  are  served  the  same, 

Pay  and  look  pleasant — that’s  the  game. 

Jessie  Pope. 


HIS  MAJESTY’S  STEW. 

Announced  with  a lustier  music  than  ever  a civic  feast, 
It  goes  by  the  name  of  “Dinner”  four  times  a week  at 
least ; 

Hungry  and  hard  and  happy  we  crowd  at  the  bugles’ 
strain 

To  dip  in  the  smoking  dixies  for  the  same  old  grub  again, 
The  lunch  hour  means  pleasant  surprises  for  you, 

For  us  it  means,  briefly,  His  Majesty’s  Stew. 


Wherever  the  sons  of  Britain  to  answer  her  summons 
flock, 

They  dine  as  it  were  together  precisely  at  one  o’clock; 

Possessed  by  the  same  high  ardor,  inspired  by  the  one 
grim  wish, 

They  gather  in  hungry  hundreds  to  brouse  at  the  same 
State  dish; 

You  would  thrill  could  you  hear  all  the  bugles  that 
blew 

In  this  isle  any  day  for  His  Majesty’s  Stew! 

It  isn’t  the  dish  most  dainty  for  a cultured  idler’s  taste, 

And  it’s  best  to  the  man  most  hungry,  sauced  with  a 
dash  of  haste, 

You  dine  on  a dozen  courses,  perfect,  from  silver  plate, 

At  every  eve  at  seven  as  Roman  gourmets  ate; 

We  only  can  pity  your  plenty,  for  you 

Don’t  work  every  day  for  His  Majesty’s  Stew. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


203 


If  we  grow  to  be  old  and  weary,  and  doze  in  the  fireside 
chair, 

And  the  livelier  generations  come  chattering  round  us 
there, 

Exchanging  their  untamed  fancies,  their  dreams  of  the 
coming  days, 

And  the  past  comes  up  like  a picture,  unrolled  for  our 
inward  gaze, 

Shall  we  sigh  for  the  deeds  we  intended  to  do? 

Not  a bit!  For  we’ve  eaten  His  Majesty’s  Stew. 

W.  K.  H.,  in  “Glasgow  Herald.” 


SEVENTY  BILLION  DOLLARS. 

It  is  estimated  the  War  will  cost  §70,000,000,000. 

Seventy  billion  is  quite  a sum 

For  sending  a million  to  Kingdom  Come, 

A million  men  made  null  and  dumb, 
Slaughtered  like  common  cattle; 

But  ye  spend  it,  Kings  and  Captains,  ye 
With  the  money  and  lives  of  men  make  free, 
And  ye  hear  with  a ghoulish  hell-born  glee 
The  Red  Death’s  gurgling  rattle. 

Seventy  billion  is  the  cost 
Of  a so-called  civilization  lost, 

Of  an  age  of  science  lightly  tossed 

By  the  Kings  on  Moloch’s  altar; 
Seventy  billion  built  by  toil, 

Sweat  of  men  in  the  daily  moil, 

Given  gayly  to  Gods  of  Spoil 

For  the  sake  of  their  rule’s  Gibraltar. 

Seventy  billion  dollars  spent 

For  kindling  Hell  from  Aix  to  Ghent, 

From  Rhine  to  Seine,  and  the  nations  rent 
And  the  clock  of  progress  shattered; 
O,  Captains,  Kings  and  all  your  crew 
That  drench  the  lands  with  a ghastly  dew, 
When  the  day  of  reckoning  comes  for  you, 
What  will  your  sway  have  mattered? 

Robertus  Love  in  “St.  Louis  Republic.” 


204 


SONGS  OP  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


“TOMMIES”  AS  SEEN  BY  A FRENCHMAN. 

Dieu!  but  ze  Tommies  can  fight! 

Zey  know  not  ze  meanings  of  fright. 

Une  bombe  she  bang  go! — 

Zey  chant  loud  “Wot  oh!” 

And  proverbs  mos’  strange  zey  recite. 

Zey  shrink  not  from  terreeble  skenes, 
Zey  laugh  at  ze  deedly  machines! 

Bravo!  Zey  make  sharge 
At  Germans  more  large, 

And  geeve  to  zem  beaucoup  des  beans — ! 

And  wen  zere  goes  somet’ing  all  wrong, 
Wen  ver’  special  ’ell  comes  along, 

Zey  lift  oop  zeir  voice 
And  make  ze  glad  noise 
Of  “Are  we  donarted?  . . . Non!” 

So  “Vivent  les  bons  Tommies!”  I say — 
“Les  Tommies  tres  braves  et  tres  gais!” 
Come,  toast  zem  some  beers 
And  geeve  zem  trois  sheers — 

Ze  Tommies! — ’eep,  eep,  eep,  'ooray! 

J.  J.  Bell,  in  the  “Daily  Chronicle.” 


JULES  FRANCOIS. 

Jules  Francois  is  poet,  and  gallant  and  gay; 

Jules  Francois  makes  frocks  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paiz; 
Since  the  mobilization  Jules  Francois’s  the  one 
That  sits  by  the  breech  of  a galloping  gun, 

In  the  team  of  a galloping  gun! 

When  the  wheatfields  of  August  stood  white  on  the 
plain 

Jules  Francois  was  ordered  to  go  to  Lorraine, 

Since  the  guns  would  get  flirting  with  good  Mr.  Krupp 
And  wanted  Jules  Francois  to  limber  them  up, 

To  lay  and  to  limber  them  up! 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


205 


The  road  it  was  dusty,  the  road  it  was  long, 

But  there  was  Jules  Francois  to  make  you  a song; 

He  sang  them  a song,  and  he  fondled  his  gun, 

Though  I wouldn’t  translate  it  he  sang  it  Al; 

His  battery  thought  it  Al! 

The  morning  was  fresh  and  the  morning  was  cool 
When  they  stopped  in  an  orchard  two  miles  out  of  Toul, 
And  the  grey  muzzles  spat  through  the  grey  muzzles’ 
smoke, 

And  there  was  Jules  Francois  to  make  you  a joke, 

To  crack  his  idea  of  a joke: — 

“The  road  to  our  Paris  ’tis  hard  as  can  be; 

The  road  to  that  London  he  halts  at  the  sea; 

So,  vcis-tu,  mon  gars?  ’tis  as  certain  as  sin 
This  wisdom  that  chooses  the  road  to  Berlin!” 

So  they  follow  the  road  to  Berlin. 

“Punch.” 


PRZEMYSL. 

The  trumpets  blare  in  the  quivering  air 
As  with  bated  breath  waits  Przemysl 
For  the  dread  onslaught  of  war’s  juggernaut 
At  the  point  of  the  awful  syzygy. 

The  guns  will  roar  at  the  walls  before 
The  invested  city  of  Przemysl, 

While  the  imps  of  hell  add  their  horrible  yell 
To  their  impious  cachinnaticns. 

And  should  anyone  read  this  wartime  screed, 
And  object  to  its  rhymes  for  Przemysl, 

Let  him  go  his  way  and  have  his  say, 

Though  he  choose  to  rhyme  it  with  Oshkosh. 

“New  York  Sun.” 


206 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO? 


A war  chant  in  a minor  key  respectfully  dedicated  to  Lord  Charles  Beres- 
ford,  Mr.  Horatio  Bottomley,  Mr.  Alfred  Hunnable,  and  other  patriot  orators 
who  are  now  busy  with  peace  terms. 

What  shall  we  do  with  the  Kaiser,  the  man  who  caused 
the  war? 

What  shall  we  do  with  his  Royal  Nibs  to  settle  a long, 
long  score? 

We  shall  give  short  shrift  to  the  Kaiser,  he  never  shall 
rule  again; 

We’ll  pack  him  away  to  the  far  South  Seas,  besmirched 
with  the  brand  of  Cain. 

We’ll  make  an  end  of  his  warlike  pride,  and  his  mailed 
fist  accurst- — 

That’s  what  we’ll  do  with  the  Kaiser— 

But 

We  have  to  catch  him  first. 

What  shall  we  do  to  Germany  when  we  have  won 
b Berlin? 

What  shall  we  do  to  the  modern  Huns  to  punish  them 
for  their  sin? 

Oh,  Holstein  we’ll  give  to  Denmark,  and  France  shall 
have  Lorraine, 

We’ll  cut  a slice  from  here  and  there  they’ll  not  get  back 
again. 

They’d  set  to  work  and  fight  us  if  we  gave  them  half 
a chance, 

So  we’ll  cut  ’em  into  rags — 

Just  now 

Our  Army  is  in  France! 


MATRl  DOLOROSAE. 

W.  M.  L.  Hutchinson  in  “London  Spectator.” 

They  bore  a warrior  home  upon  his  shield 
To  hollow  Lacedaemon,  long  ago; 

They  told  how,  lion-like,  he  charged  the  foe, 

And  fell  the  hero  of  a hard-won  field. 

Then  all  his  house  made  moan,  but  tearlessly 
His  mother  watched  beside  her  first  born  dead; 
And  when  they  bade  her  weep  for  him  she  said — 
“Sparta  has  many  a worthier  son  than  he.” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GEE  AT  WOELD  WAB 


207 


A soul  as  steadfast  looks  from  your  wan  face, 

0 English  Mother,  now  like  her  bereft, 

Yet  not,  like  her,  denied  a hope  divine, 

You  too  have  known  the  sovereign  pride  of  race; 
You  that  have  said,  “Though  I be  desolate  left, 
Take,  England,  this  my  son,  for  he  is  thine.” 


THE  SEARCH  LIGHTS  ON  THE  MERSEY. 

From  “Punch” 

A long,  lean  bar  of  silver  spans 
The  ebon-rippled  water-way, 

And  like  a lost  moon’s  errant  ray 

Strikes  on  the  passing  caravans. 

Ghost  ships  that  from  the  desert  seas 
Loom  silent  through  the  steady  beams, 
Pale  phantoms  of  elusive  dreams 
Cargoed  with  ancient  memories. 

Through  the  long  night,  across  the  cool, 
Black  waters,  to  their  shrouded  berth, 
Bearing  the  treasures  of  the  earth, 

Glide  the  fair  ships  to  Liverpool. 


THE  ARMY  OF  THE  DEAD. 

Baeey  Pain,  in  “Westminster  Gazette.” 

I dreamed  that  overhead 
I saw  in  twilight  grey 
The  Army  of  the  Dead 
Marching  upon  its  way, 

So  still  and  passionless, 

With  faces  so  serene, 

That  scarcely  could  one  guess 
Such  men  in  war  had  been. 

No  mark  of  hurt  they  bore, 
Nor  smoke,  nor  bloody  stain; 
Nor  suffered  any  more 
Famine,  fatigue,  or  pain; 


208 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Nor  any  lust  of  hate 
Now  lingered  in  their  eyes— 
Who  have  fulfilled  their  fate, 
Have  lost  all  enmities. 

A new  and  greater  pride 
So  quenched  the  pride  of  race 
That  foes  marched  side  by  side 
Who  once  fought  face  to  face. 
That  ghostly  army’s  plan 
Knows  but  one  race,  one  rod — 
All  nations  there  are  Man, 
And  the  one  King  is  God. 

No  longer  on  their  ears 
The  bugle’s  summons  falls; 
Beyond  these  tangled  spheres 
The  Archangel’s  trumpet  calls; 
And  by  that  trumpet  led 
Far  up  the  exalted  sky 
The  Army  of  the  Dead 
Goes  by,  and  still  goes  by — 

Look  upward,  standing  mute: 
Salute ! 


THE  VIGIL. 

Henry  Newbolt,  in  “London  Times.” 

England:  where  the  sacred  flame 
Burns  before  the  inmost  shrine, 
Where  the  lips  that  love  thy  name 
Consecrate  their  hopes  and  thine, 
Where  the  banners  of  thy  dead 
Weave  their  shadows  overhead, 

Watch  beside  thine  arms  tonight, 

Pray  that  God  defend  the  right. 

Think  that  when  tomorrow  comes 
War  shall  claim  command  of  all 
Thou  must  hear  the  roll  of  drums, 

Thou  must  hear  the  trumpet’s  call. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


209 


Now  before  they  silence  ruth, 

Commune  with  the  voice  of  truth; 

England!  on  thy  knees  tonight 
Pray  that  God  defend  the  right. 

Single-hearted,  unafraid, 

Hither  all  thy  heroes  came, 

On  this  altar’s  steps  were  laid 

Gordon’s  life  and  Outram’s  fame. 
England!  if  thy  will  be  yet 
By  their  great  example  set, 

Here  beside  thine  arms  tonight 
Pray  that  God  defend  the  right. 

So  shalt  thou  when  morning  comes 
Rise  to  conquer  or  to  fall, 

Joyful  hear  the  rolling  drums, 

Joyful  hear  the  trumpet’s  call. 

Then  let  Memory  tell  thy  heart: 

“England!  what  thou  were  thou  art!” 

Gird  thee  with  thine  ancient  might, 

Forth,  and  God  defend  the  Right! 

THE  SOLDIER’S  DREAM. 

By  Thomas  Campbell. 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered, 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw 
By  the  wolf-scaring  faggot  that  guarded  the  slain, 
At  the  dead  of  the  night  a sweet  vision  I saw; 

And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I dreamed  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field’s  dreadful  array. 

Far,  far  I had  roamed  on  a desolate  track; 

’Twas  Autumn, — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 

I flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  morning  life’s  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young; 
I heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 


210 


SONGS  OP  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I swore 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part; 
My  little  ones  kissed  me  a thousand  times  o’er, 

And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

“Stay,  stay  with  us!- — rest! — thou  art  weary  and  worn!” 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay; — 
But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 


THE  MARRIED  MAN. 

Reservist  of  the  Line — by  Rudyard  Kipling  in 
“The  Five  Nations.” 

The  batchelor  ’e  fights  for  one 
As  joyful  as  can  be; 

But  the  married  man  don’t  call  it  fun, 
Because  ’e  fights  for  three — 

For  Fm  an’  ’Er  an’  It 

(An  ’Two  an’  One  makes  Three) 

’E  wants  to  finish  ’is  little  bit, 

An’  ’e  wants  to  go  ’onre  to  ’is  tea! 
********* 

The  bachelor  ’e  fights  ’is  fight 
An’  stretches  out  an’  snores; 

But  the  married  man  sits  up  all  night — 

For  ’e  don’t  like  out  o’  doors: 

’E’ll  strain  an’  listen  an’  peer 
An’  give  the  first  alarm — 

For  the  sake  o’  the  breathin’  ’e’s  used  to  ’ear 
An’  the  ’ead  on  the  thick  of  ’is  arm. 

The  bachelor  may  risk  ’is  ’ide 

To  ’elp  you  when  you’re  downed; 

But  the  married  man  will  wait  beside 
Till  the  ambulance  comes  around. 

’E’ll  take  your  ’ome  address 
An’  all  you’ve  time  to  say, 

Or  if  ’e  sees  there’s  ’ope,  ’e’ll  press 
Your  art’ry  ’alf  the  day — 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR  211 


Yes,  It  ’an  ’Er  an’  ’Im, 

Which  often  makes  me  think 
The  married  man  must  sink  or  swim 
An’ — ’e  can’t  afford  to  sink! 

Oh,  ’Im  and  ’It  an’  ’Er 

Since  Adam  an’  Eve  began, 

So  I’d  rather  fight  with  the  bachelor 
An’  be  nursed  by  the  married  man! 


TO  OUR  DEAD. 

By  Edmund  Gosse  in  “London  Times.” 

The  flame  of  Summer  droops  and  fades  and  closes, 
While  Autumn  thins  the  embers  of  the  copse, 

And  even  more  the  violent  life  of  roses 
Grows  keener  as  the  roseate  foliage  drops; 

0,  strong  young  hearts  within  whose  veins  was  leaping, 
Love  like  a fount,  hate  like  a dart  shot  high, 

My  heart  o’er  yours,  its  dolorous  vigil  keeping, 

Is  pierced  with  sorrow,  while  in  joy  you  die! 

Your  ashes  o’er  the  flats  of  France  are  scattered, 

But  hold  a fire  more  hot  than  flesh  of  ours; 

The  stainless  flag  that  flutters,  frayed  and  tattered, 
Shall  wave  and  wave  like  Spring’s  immortal  flowers. 
You  die,  but  in  your  death  life  glows  intenser, 

You  shall  not  know  the  shame  of  growing  old; 

In  endless  joy  you  wave  the  holy  censer. 

And  blow  the  trumpet  tho’  your  lips  are  cold. 

Life  was  to  us  a mist  of  intimations; 

Death  is  a flash  that  shows  us  where  we  trod; 

You,  falling  nobly  for  the  righteous  nations, 

Reveal  the  unknown,  the  unhoped-for  face  of  God. 
After  long  toil,  your  labors  shall  not  perish; 

Through  grateful  generations  yet  to  come 
Your  ardent  gesture,  dying.  Love  shall  cherish, 

And  like  a beacon  you  shall  guide  us  home. 


212 


SONGS  OF  THE  GEEAT  WORLD  WAR 


THE  BRIDE. 

Katherine  Tynan  in  the  “Windsor.” 

Weave  me  no  wreath  of  orange-blossom, 
No  bridal  white  shall  me  adorn; 

I wear  a red  rose  in  my  bosom, 

Tomorrow  I shall  wear  the  thorn. 

Bring  me  no  gauds  to  deck  my  beauty, 
Put  by  the  jewels  and  the  lace; 

My  love  to  honor  and  to  duty 
Was  plighted  ere  he  saw  my  face. 

I hear  his  impatient  charger  neighing, 

I hear  the  trumpets  blow  fanfare! 

His  comrades  ride,  as  to  a Maying, 
Jesting  and  splendid  to  the  war. 

Why  is  my  lady-mother  weeping? 

Why  is  my  father  grieved  sore? 

Oh,  love,  God  have  you  in  His  keeping, 
The  day  you  leave  your  true-love’s  door. 

Why  should  I weep?  I am  his  for  ever, 
Whose  name  and  ring  I wear  with  pride; 

Nor  earth  nor  heaven  shall  us  dissever, 

Oh,  love,  one  kiss  before  you  ride! 

Go  glad  and  gay  to  meet  the  foeman  , 

I love  you  to  my  latest  breath; 

Oh,  love,  there  is  no  happier  woman! 

See,  I am  smiling!  Love — till  death! 


THE  DROWNED  SAILOR. 

By  Maurice  Hewlett,  in  “London  Daily  Chronicle.” 

Last  night  I saw  my  true  love  stand 
All  shadowy  by  my  bed. 

He  had  my  locket  in  his  hand; 

I knew  that  he  was  dead. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


213 


“Sweetheart,  why  stand  you  there  so  fast, 
Why  stand  you  there  so  grave?” 

“I  think”  (said  he)  “this  hour’s  the  last 
That  you  and  I shall  have.” 

“You  gave  me  this  from  your  fair  breast, 
It’s  never  left  me  yet; 

But  now  it  dares  not  seek  the  nest 
Because  it  is  so  wet.” 

“The  cold  gray  sea  has  covered  it, 

Deep  in  the  sand  it  lies, 

While  over  me  the  long  weeds  flit, 

And  veil  my  staring  eyes.” 

“And  there  are  German  sailors  laid 
Beside  me  in  the  deep. 

We  have  no  need  for  gun  or  blade 
United  in  our  sleep.” 

“Cold  is  the  bed  that  I lie  on, 

And  deep  beneath  the  swell, 

No  voice  is  left  to  make  my  moan, 

Or  bid  my  love  farewell.” 

Now  I am  widow  that  was  wife, 

Would  God  that  they  could  prove 

What  law  should  rule  without  the  strife 
That’s  robbed  me  of  my  love. 

AFTERMATH 

By  B.  in  “London  Times.” 

Yes,  he  is  gone,  there  is  the  message,  see! 

Slain  by  a Prussian  bullet  as  he  led 

The  men  that  loved  him,  dying,  cheered  them  on — 

My  son — my  eldest  son.  So  be  it,  God! 

This  is  no  time  for  tears — no  time  to  mourn. 

No  time  for  sombre  draperies  of  woe. 

Let  the  aggressor  weep!  for  they  have  sinned 
The  sin  of  Satan — Lust  of  power  and  pride — 

Mean  envy  of  their  neighbor’s  weal — a plot 
Hatched  amid  glozing  smiles  and  prate  of  peace. 
Through  the  false  years — until  the  Day — the  Day 
When  all  this  kneeling  at  the  Devil’s  feet 
Should  win  the  world — Ay,  let  them  weep — ! 


214 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


But  we 

With  eyes  undimmed  march  on — our  mourning  robes 
Bejewelled  with  the  deeds  of  those  that  die, 

Lustre  on  lustre — till  no  sable  patch 
Peeps  through  their  brilliance. 

In  the  years  to  come 
When  we  have  done  our  work  and  God’s  own  peace, 
The  Peace  of  Justice,  Mercy,  Righteousness, 

Like  the  still  radiance  of  a summer’s  dawn, 

With  tranquil  glory  floods  a troubled  world — 

Why,  then  perhaps  in  the  old  hall  at  home, 

Where  1 once  dreamed  my  eldest-born  should  stand 
The  master,  as  I stand  the  master  now, 

Our  eyes,  my  wife,  shall  meet,  and  gleam,  and  mark 
Niched  on  the  walls  in  sanctity  of  pride, 

Hal’s  sword,  Dick’s  medal,  and  the  cross  He  won 
Yet  never  wore — That  is  the  time  for  tears — 

Drawn  from  a well  of  love  deep  down — deep  down, 
Deep  as  the  mystery  of  immortal  souls — ■ 

That  is  the  time  for  tears — Not  now — Not  now! 


A NATION’S  PRAYER. 

Great  God,  supreme,  Whose  sovereign  power, 
And  guiding  hand  our  lives  confess, 

On  Whom  we  call  in  danger’s  hour, 

In  every  season  of  distress; 

Help  us,  though  weak  in  heart  and  will, 

Thee  to  adore,  and  bless  us  still. 

Our  selfish  thoughts,  our  foolish  pride, 

Our  want  of  truth  and  inward  grace, 

From  Thy  pure  eyes  we  may  not  hide; 

Lord,  set  them  not  before  Thy  face. 

Nor  let  Thine  arm  in  wrath  fulfil 
Some  hurtful  aim,  but  bless  us  still. 

In  this  dark  hour  we  look  to  Thee, 

Our  fathers’  God,  we  ask  Thine  aid: 

Thy  smile  is  light  and  liberty; 

By  Thy  strong  word  the  earth  was  made: 
No  foe  shall  daunt,  no  fear  shall  chill, 

If  Thou  art  nigh  to  bless  us  still. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  AVAR 


215 


Oh,  bless  us — not  that  we  are  good, 

Or  that  we  more  than  others  are: 

Our  waywardness  is  like  a flood 
Which  bears  us  oft  from  Thee  afar; 

Lord,  let  not  this  affect  us  ill, 

But  in  Thy  mercy  bless  us  still. 

“Stepps.”  J.  I.  W. 


TO  EMILE  VERHAEREN. 

How  lonely  walked  thy  Muse  among  the  nations! 

Fluting  no  false,  light  lays  in  Fancy’s  bower — 

But  finding  in  Man’s  suffering,  toil,  and  patience 
Magic  and  sombre  power. 

Thine  were  the  eyes  that  saw  the  old  saints  tremble 
In  their  husht  shrines,  as  trains  went  thundering  by; 
Thy  voice  proclaimed,  thy  heart  would  not  dissemble 
The  portents  of  the  sky. 

They  are  shattered  now — these  pictures  quaint  and 
holy! 

The  bells  are  down:  the  altar  lights  are  dark: 

That  old  tired  slave,  the  windmill,  signals  slowly 
The  gunner  to  his  mark. 

And  all  the  nations  sit  in  doubt  and  sorrow: 

Red  flares  the  sunset  of  the  world  they  know — 

And  no  man  knoweth  plainly  of  the  morrow 
Behind  the  night’s  black  woe. 

One  migrant  thought  came,  near  my  heart  to  settle: 
Fledged  from  thy  song,  it  journeyed  through  the  Amid 
War’s  furnace  roars — 

Yet,  Life’s  enduring  metal 
Is  forged  there — not  destroyed! 

A.  S.  F. 


TO  WHAT  BASE  USES? 

The  German?,  being  short  of  bu’lets,  have  commandeered  the  whole  of  the 
plates  of  lead  and  zinc  used  in  the  production  of  music  scores. 

When  Music  raised  her  heavenly  head, 

Her  parents  could  have  had  no  notion 
Her  throat  Avould  pour  out  notes  of  lead 
To  spur  the  Avicked  into  motion. 


216 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


For  Blister  Bill  she  nothing  cared — 

His  face  so  wild,  his  foot  so  cloven — 

She  never  dreamed  he  could  have  dared 
To  bay  the  British  with  Beethoven. 

Poor  Wagner  would  his  voice  lift  up 
Could  he  observe  how  all  the  muses 
Have  been  annexed  by  Mr.  Krupp, 

As  fodder  for  the  mitrailleuses. 

To  think  the  gentle  songs  of  Spring — 

A never-failing  cheery  tonic— 

The  Huns  into  the  cauldron  fling 
To  make  their  cannon  Mendelssohnic! 

O shades  of  Gluck  (not  “One  o’Clock”), 
Iphigenia,  down  at  Tauris, 

Is  shattered  in  a molten  shock 

And  now  she  really  knows  what  war  is. 

Yet  Blister  Bill,  with  swank  a lot, 

And  various  glittering  togs  arrayed  in, 

Puts  Schubert  in  the  melting  pot, 

And  prays  in  aid  the  noble  Haydn. 

While,  all  the  while,  the  truckler  tries 
To  seem  a saint  in  Uncle  Sam’s  sight, 

But  Sam  has  got  no  taste  for  lies, 

They’re  much  too  feeble — by  a Brahms’  sight 

Rare  treasures  vanish  in  the  flames — 

Our  Mozart  sweet,  our  mighty  Handel — 

To  feed  the  mad  adventurer’s  games, 

To  gratify  the  hungry  vandal. 

But,  Bill,  when  the  last  shot  you’ve  had 

From  some  sad,  wretched,  starving  corps,  you 
Must  not  forget  our  guns,  my  lad, 

Have  striking  music  waiting  for  you. 

“London  Opinion.” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


217 


1915 

H.  D.  Rawnsley  in  “ London  Times.  ” 

Today  how  many  thousands  will  not  hear 

There  in  their  changeless,  timeless  world  of  light 
The  sad  year’s  solemn  passing  in  the  night, 

The  silent  coming  of  a happier  year. 

For  this  new  year,  though  full  of  woe  and  fear, 

Shall  prove  that  Right  has  triumphed  over  Might, 
Shall  see  an  end  of  war’s  accursed  blight 
And  Peace  among  the  nations  drawing  near. 

We  cannot  hear  their  voices,  clasp  their  hands, 

The  faces  that  we  loved  no  more  we  see; 

But  they  whose  names  are  bright  on  Honor’s  roll 
In  some  far  world  shall  know  we  reached  their  goal, 
That  nobler  for  their  deed  our  Empire  stands, 
Crowned  with  the  Will  that  set  all  Europe  free. 


THE  SWORDS  OF  INDIA 

Harold  Begbie  in  “London  Chronicle.” 

Dedicated  to  His  Highness  the  Maharajah  of  Mysore. 

They  said,  the  gentle  Germans  said: 

“When  we,  the  mighty  host,  attack 
This  England  whom  the  nations  dread, 

India  will  strike  her  in  the  back!  ” 

But  you  another  tale  unfold; 

You  offer  treasure,  and  your  lords 
Cry  to  their  Emperor,  “Sire,  behold 
Our  swords,  our  myriad  swords!” 

They  said,  the  jealous  Germans  sa’d: 

“This  bloated  England,  like  a beast, 

Too  long  her  coward  soul  has  fed 
At  the  rich  manger  of  the  East!” 

But  you  who  scorn  the  tyrant’s  lash, 

Our  Peace  the  shield  of  all  your  hordes, 
Under  the  flag  of  England  flash 
Your  swords,  your  warrior  swords! 


218 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


They  said,  the  jeering  Germans  said: 
“India,  who  waits,  will  not  be  loth — ” 
Her  conscripts’  blood  be  on  the  head 
Of  them  who  lied  about  us  both! 

India,  with  us  you  live  and  breathe, 

Our  steadfast  will  with  yours  accords; 
God  knows  our  pride  when  you  unsheathe 
Your  swords,  your  faithful  swords! 


MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

By  George  Cabot  Lodge 

From  “ The  Song  of  the  Wave,  ” Charles  Scribner’s  Sons.  Copyright,  1898. 
By  permission  of  the  publishers. 

Weep,  mothers  of  men! 

Out  of  pain  ye  have  peopled  the  earth, 

And  the  pain  of  life  is  the  pain  of  birth, 

With  its  sordid  lust  and  its  evil  mirth, 

And  yet  ye  have  borne  and  must  bear  again — 
Weep,  mothers  of  men! 

Weep,  mothers  of  men! 

The  toil  of  the  body  and  ache  of  brain, 

The  sweat  of  life  at  the  end  proves  vain; 

Your  children  leave  you  to  dare  the  strain. 
Your  children  return  to  you  alien — 

Weep,  mothers  of  men! 

Weep,  mothers  of  men! 

The  hands  of  the  world  are  strong  to  take 
The  lives  ye  bear  for  the  world’s  sole  sake, 

To  try  their  souls  till  they  bend  or  break; 

Your  children  vanish  from  out  your  ken — 
Weep,  mothers  of  men! 


Weep,  mothers  of  men! 

For  a woman’s  lips,  for  the  lust  of  gold, 
Your  children’s  honor  is  bought  and  sold, 
Your  children  die  in  the  dark  and  cold, 
Your  children  never  shall  come  again — 
Weep,  mothers  of  men. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


219 


Weep,  mothers  of  men! 

The  human  heart  is  the  proper  sheath 

For  the  dagger  of  life;  ye  have  blown  the  breath 

Of  life  in  the  world  and  it  ends  in  death; 

Your  children  live  and  die,  and  then? — 

Weep,  mothers  of  men! 

Weep,  mothers  of  men! 

Weep  and  pray  to  the  God  whose  scorn 
Has  given  ye  life  that  men  may  be  born, 

Hearts  to  suffer  and  eyes  to  mourn, 

For  the  crown  of  love  is  a crown  of  thorn, 

And  your  children  return  to  you  alien, 

Perish  and  never  return  again — 

Weep,  mothers  of  men! 

IT’S  A LONG  WAY  TO  TIPPERARY. 

By  Jack  Judge  and  Harry  Williams. 

Up  to  mighty  London  came  an  Irishman  one  day, 

As  the  streets  are  paved  with  gold,  sure  everyone 
was  gay; 

Singing  songs  of  Piccadilly,  Strand  and  Leicester  Square, 
Till  Paddy  got  excited,  then  he  shouted  to  them 
there : — 

It’s  a long  way  to  Tipperary, 

It’s  a long  way  to  go; 

It’s  a long  way  to  Tipperary, 

To  the  sweetest  girl  I know! 

Goodbye  Piccadilly,  Fareweh  Leicester  Square, 
It’s  a long  way  to  Tipperary, 

But  my  heart’s  right  there. 

Paddy  wrote  a letter  to  his  Irish  Molly  0! 

Saying,  “Should  you  not  receive  it,  write  and  let  me 
know! 

“If  I make  mistakes  in  spelling,  Molly  dear,”  said  he, 
“Remember,  it’s  the  pen  that’s  bad,  don’t  lay  the 
blame  on  me.” 

Molly  wrote  a neat  reply  to  Irish  Paddy  0 ! 

Saying,  “Mike  Maloney  wants  to  marry  me  and  so 
Leave  the  Strand  and  Piccadilly,  or  you’ll  be  to  blame, 
“For  love  has  fairly  drove  me  silly — hoping  you’re  the 
same!” 


220 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


THE  INGRATES. 

By  Touchstone,  in  “ The  London  Daily  Mail.  ” 

The  atest  German  announcement  is  that  liberty  is  to  be  brought  to  the 
oppressed  subjects  of  the  British  empire. 

The  poor  Australian  groans  aloud 
Beneath  the  heavy  British  yoke; 

Upon  his  shoulders,  meekly  bowed, 

There  falls  the  brutal  driver’s  stroke. 

Surely  he  turns  his  longing  eyes 
Across  the  trackless  ocean  wave 

To  where  the  German  standard  flies, 

The  Emblem  of  the  free  and  brave! 

The  tired  Canadian  drags  his  chain 
That  fetters  him  to  England’s  strand; 

He  feels  his  very  life-blood  drain, 

Sucked  by  the  vampire  motherland. 

Each  crushed  and  tortured  Indian  chief 
Hails  the  deliverance  now  begun, 

And  greets  with  undisguised  relief 
The  advent  of  the  gentle  Hun. 

Nay,  but  our  servile  Empire’s  might 
Against  her  would-be  friend  is  furled; 

These  wretched  slaves  arise  to  fight 
The  liberator  of  the  world. 

Filled  with  a wild  ungrateful  fire 
Her  sons  flock  home  by  every  sea: 

The  things  to  which  their  souls  aspire 
Were  never  made  in  Germany! 


YOUR  DEAR  OLD  DAD  WAS  IRISH. 

William  Hargreaves  and  Laurence  Wright. 

The  troop  ship  was  waiting,  as  friends  said  “ Good-bye,” 
The  boys  were  departing  midst  many  a sigh, 

A young  Irish  soldier,  erect  in  his  place 
Was  eager  to  fight  for  the  cause  of  his  race. 

An  old  Chelsea  pensioner  crept  to  his  side, 

His  form  bent  and  feeble,  his  face  flushed  with  pride, 
Murmured,  “My  lad,  when  you’re  facing  the  foe, 
Remember  your  breeding  and  let  them  all  know:” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


221 


Take  this  bunch  of  shamrock  and  guard  it  with  pride, 
The  rose  of  Old  England  keep  them  side  by  side, 

If  anyone  asks  what  their  meaning  can  be, 

Just  say  they’re  an  emblem  of  sweet  liberty. 

The  bugle  then  sounded,  the  partings  were  o’er, 

And  how  those  boys  fought  on  that  far  distant  shore! 
An  old  soldier  thought,  as  of  vict’ry  he  read, 

Of  the  Shamrock,  the  rose,  and  the  words  he  had  said. 

Chorus  : 

“Your  dear  old  Dad  was  Irish, 

Your  Mother  came  from  Wales, 

Your  Grandad  was  a Scotchman, 

From  the  bonnie  Hieland  dales. 

So  remember  when  you’re  fighting, 

Where  foreign  bullets  whiz, 

You’ve  got  the  blood  in  you  to  keep 
Old  England  where  she  is!” 


THE  KILT  AND  BONNET  BLUE. 

My  harp  I’ll  strike  for  Scotia  brave, 

Fair  Freedom’s  loved  abode; 

Proud  are  her  sons,  the  foot  of  slaves 
Their  heather  never  trod; 

Staunch  loyalty,  whate’er  betide, 

Their  manly  breasts  imbue! 

They  love  the  bonnie  tartan  plaid, 

The  kilt  and  bonnet  blue. 

The  kilt  and  bonnet  blue,  hurrah! 

The  kilt  and  bonnet  blue, 

They  love  the  bonnie  tartan  plaid, 
The  kilt  and  bonnet  blue. 

There  are  across  the  stormy  sea 
More  genial  climes — what  then? 

Their  maids  are  not  so  fair  and  free, 

Nor  yet  as  bold  their  men; 

For  Scotia’s  sons  both  far  and  wide, 

High  honor’s  path  pursue, 

Robed  in  the  bonnie  tartan  plaid. 

The  kilt  and  bonnet  blue. 


222 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Our  liberty  was  dearly  bought — 

Enthralling  chains  we  spurn! 

Remember  how  our  fathers  fought 
And  bled  on  Bannockburn! 

A fame-wreath,  ever  to  abide, 

They  bound — the  gallant  few! — 

’Round  Freedom’s  brow,  twined  with  the  plaid, 
The  kilt  and  bonnet  blue. 

If  foemen,  then,  cross  o’er  the  main, 

And  land  upon  our  shore, 

They’ll  come  to  be  forced  back  again, 

Or  fall  in  battle’s  roar; 

We’ll  belt  the  claymores  to  our  sides, 

That  won  famed  Waterloo, 

And  conquer  in  our  tartan  plaids, 

The  kilt  and  bonnet  blue. 


Alex.  Logan. 


SOLDIERS  OF  THE  GUARD. 

A British  National  Song. 

The  following  verses  are  from  a well-known  writer  for  the  Guard’s  Band. 

Wake!  Britain!  from  your  sleeping, 

For  Queen  and  country  wake! 

Your  countrymen  are  weeping, 

Your  honor  is  at  stake, 

Hark!  to  the  roar  and  the  rattle 
That  echo  far  away; 

Gird  up  your  loins  for  battle, 

Or  stay  at  home  and  pray. 

For  the  men  who  are  marching  to  the  front, 

For  the  women  who  are  weeping  all  bereft, 

For  the  boys  who  bear  the  battle  and  the  brunt, 

For  the  broken-hearted  girls  that  they  have  left, 

For  the  honor,  and  the  valor,  tho’  the  duty  may  be  hard, 
For  the  glory  of  the  soldiers  of  the  Guard! 

Speed,  Britain,  they  are  crying 
For  help  from  motherland; 

Avenge  the  dead  and  dying 
Left  on  the  desert  sand. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


223 


Rush  to  the  front  and  brave  it, 
Pluck  out  the  rebel’s  sting; 
Unfurl  the  flag  and  wave  it. 

That  the  British  may  sing 
For  the  men  are  marching  to  the  front,  etc. 

Shout,  Britain,  and  above  it 
Ring  out  the  traitor’s  knell; 
Find  out  the  spot,  and  love  it, 
Where  gallant  Gordon  fell! 
March!  for  the  bands  are  playing; 

Leave  to  the  loved  a tear. 
Farewell!  the  anchor’s  weighing, 
But  let  the  people  cheer. 

For  the  men  are  marching  to  the  front,  etc. 


BEFORE  AND  AFTER. 

Before  the  battle.  Gay  standards  waving, 

Drums  loudly  beating,  bugles  blowing  shrill; 

Swords  brightly  gleaming,  rifles  borne  lightly, 

Big  cannon  drawn  over  meadow  and  hill; 

Steeds  proudly  prancing,  soldiers  advancing, 

Eager  to  cope  with  the  terrible  foe; 

Steadily  marching,  with  hearts  keenly  burning, 

And  eyes  that  with  valor  and  rapture  full  glow. 

After  the  battle.  Torn  standards  lying, 

Bugle  and  drum  most  mournfully  still; 

Bloodly  swords  broken,  full  many  dread  token 
Of  the  combat’s  dire  fury,  waged  with  fierce  will. 

Rifles  wide  scattered,  guns  bruised  and  battered, 
Soldiers  laid  bleeding  in  hundreds  and  more; 

Groans  of  the  wounded,  moans  of  the  dying, 

The  field  strewn  with  dead  and  dyed  deep  with  the 


THE  AULD  FLAG. 

O’  the  auld  flag,  the  grand  auld  flag,  long  may  it  proud- 
ly wave, 

The  birthricht  o’  a freeborn  grace,  the  glory  o’  the 
brave; 


224 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


The  wave-girt  cradle  o’  thy  fame  gave  birth  to  Liberty, 

And  throned  her  ’mid  thy  mountain  peaks,  oh!  island 
of  the  sea. 

The  echoes  o’  a thousand  years  recount  thy  deeds  o’ 
fame; 

Oppression’s  ruthless  hand  is  stayed  at  thy  time-hon- 
ored name ; 

The  auld  flag,  the  bauld  flag,  tho’  war’s  clouds  roon  thee 
blaw, 

Yet  like  thy  mountains  through  their  mist  thou’lt 
rise  aboon  them  a’. 


Let  Aytoun’s  flowing  pages  speak  thy  deeds  across  the 
sea 

Or  sangs  whase  doric  numbers  sing  o’  loves  in  Ger- 
manie : 

The  Fleur  de  Lis,  the  "Iron  Crown,”  entwined  thy 
wreaths  lang  syne. 

While  deathless  glory  gilds  thy  roll  of  victories  on 
the  brine. 

The  auld  flag,  the  dear  auld  flag,  grand  memories  round 
thee  draw, 

Since  spread  o’er  Cameron’s  gallant  breast  at  hard- 
won  Quatre-Bras; 

Or  wreathed  on  noble  Nelson’s  form  the  heritage  of 
fame ! — 

Thy  heroes  still  uphold  unstained  the  glories  of  thy 
name. 

The  auld  flag,  the  dear  auld  flag,  as  years  roll  fast  awa’, 

Still  may  thy  talismanic  power  be  felt  o’er  earth’s 
great  ba’; 

While  wreathed  around  the  dear  auld  flag  the  olive 
leaves  shall  twine, 

And  victories  greater  still  than  war  shall  round  its 
glories  shine. 

Aberdeen  “Free  Press.” 


W.  A. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


225 


“CALL  IT  A DRAW.” 

A Lancashire  Ode  to  the  Kaiser. 

(By  T.  Clayton.) 

According  to  the  Press  the  German  Emperor  is  finding  it  difficult  to  become 
the  master  of  Europe.  It  is  stated  that  feelers  for  peace  have  been  sent  out, 
and  that  the  Kaiser  would  like  “to  call  it  a draw.”  Written  in  football 
phraseology. 

Mak’  it  “a  draw,”  Mister  Kayser! 

By  gum  bud  yo’an  getten  a cheek; 

Pray  whod  dun  yo’  tali’  us  for,  mister, 

A teeom  us  is  fagged  eawt  an’  weak? 

My  word,  if  yo’  do  yo’re  mistaken, 

For  eawr  chaps  are  eawt  for  a win; 

An’  th’  match  weyn’t  be  drawn  or  abandoned 
Till  they’ve  marched  throo  th’  streets  o’  Berlin. 

A draw,  Mister  Kayser — nowe,  nowe,  mon! 

As  lung  as  eawr  chaps  keep  their  feet 
It’s  a feyght  to  a finish  or  lunger, 

It’s  a win,  or  a staggerin’  defeat. 

Eawr  teeom,  as  yo’  know,  is  a scratched  ’un; 

Wey’ve  poiked  um  up  here  an’  theere; 

Bud  yo’ll  find  every  chap  as  wey’ve  signed  on 
Knows  th’  best  way  for  th’  goalposts  to  steer. 

Yo’ve  prayed  hard  for  th’  “Day,”  an’  yo’am  gettin  it; 

Yo’ve  toasted  th’  “Day”  an’  it’s  here; 

An’  yo’ll  find  when  th’  game’s  or  wi’  an’  finished 
As  th’  map  o’  yore  country  ull  look  queer. 

Wey’re  playin’  yo’  th’  match  as  yo’an  axed  for, 

An’  th’  winners  are  yore  teeom  or  mine, 

An’  to  caw  id  a “draw”  fairly  caps  ma — 

For  th’  whistle  ’snoan  blowed  fer  hawf-time. 

Yo’  punched  off  afore  wey  were  ready, 

Yore  forrods  kept  runnin’  offside; 

Wey  appealed  when  yo’  punched  boa’  i’  Belgium 
For  foul  play  wey  conna  abide. 

Yo’  managed  to  punch  boa’  to  Paris, 

An’  no  deawt  yo’  thowt  as  yo’d  scoore; 

Bud  yo’  fun’  eawt  eawr  backs  quite  ready 
An’  fotched  yore  forrods  to  th’  floor. 


226 


SONGS  OP  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Neaw  wey’re  dribblin’  an’  heydin’  an’  screwin’ 

An’  drivin’  yo’  back,  bit  by  bit, 

An’  when  eawr  teeom’s  getten  their  stride,  mon, 

Fro’  midfield  yo’ll  soon  hev  to  flit. 

Mak’  it  a “draw”!  Mon,  tha’rt  jokin’; 

Ax  th’  “Tommies”  an’  th’  “Jacks”  at’s  afloat, 

An’  they’ll  tell  yo’  they’ll  nod  budge  an  inch,  mon, 

Or  gooa  back  on  th’  papper  we  wrote. 

Soa  buck  up  an’  feyght  to  a finish, 

Pack  th’  goal,  if  yo’  con,  i’  Berlin; 

Bud  yo’ll  find  when  yo’ve  done  a’  yo’  con  do, 

Owd  England’s  a “ten  to  one”  win. 

Ged  up  fro’  yore  knees,  Mister  Kayser, 

Doan’t  cant  abeawt  culture  an’  God; 

Wey’ve  a penalty  kick  up  agen  yo’ 

For  th’  wimin  yo’ve  put  under  th’  sod. 

Wey’ve  another  for  th’  childre  yo  tramped  on, 

An’  one  for  Termonde  an’  Louvain, 

Theer’s  another  for  th’  foul  agen  Belgium; 

An’  aw’ll  bet  yo’  wey  shan’t  shoot  i’  vain. 

An’  then,  when  th’  gam’s  ore  wi’  an’  finished 
Yo’ll  hev  a’  eawr  exes  to  pay; 

An’  aw’ll  bet  when  yo’re  axed  to  pay  th’  bill,  mon, 
Yo’ll  wish  yo’d  ne’er  toasted  “th’  Day.” 

FROM  THE  FRONT. 

The  army  has  suffered  an  awful  rout 
In  the  terrible  battle  of  (name  left  out). 

But  the  enemy’s  hordes  have  been  defeated 
On  the  banks  of  the  River  (name  deleted.) 

The  Austrians,  under  General  Dank, 

Attacked  the  Russians  at  (name  left  blank). 

On  the  road  near  (cut)  they  fled  in  fear, 

But  they  turned  and  fought  at  (blue  pencilled  here). 

Our  men  have  had  but  little  rest 

Since  the  fighting  began  at  (name  suppressed), 

But  a funny  thing  happened — we  had  to  laugh — 
When  (word  gone)  we  (missing  paragraph). 

If  the  Censor  destroys  this  letter,  well, 

I wish  the  Censor  would  go  to  (the  rest  of  the  page  was 
torn  off  by  the  Censor.)  “ Seattle  Sun.  ” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GEEAT  WOULD  WAE 


227 


TO  THE  SCHOOL  AT  WAR. 

We  don't  forget — while  in  this  dark  December 
We  sit  in  schoolrooms  that  you  know  so  well 
And  hear  the  sounds  that  you  so  well  remember — 
The  clock,  the  hurrying  feet,  the  chapel  bell; 

Others  are  sitting  in  the  seats  you  sat  in; 

There’s  nothing  else  seems  altered  here — and  yet 
Through  all  of  it,  the  same  old  Greek  and  Latin, 
You  know  we  don’t  forget. 

We  don’t  forget  you — in  the  wintry  weather 
You  man  the  trench  or  tramp  the  frozen  snow; 

We  play  the  games  we  used  to  play  together 
In  days  of  peace  that  seem  so  long  ago ; 

But  through  it  all.  the  shouting  and  the  cheering, 
Those  other  hosts  in  graver  conflict  met, 

Those  other  sadder  sounds  your  ears  are  hearing 
Be  sure  we  don’t  forget. 

And  you,  our  brothers,  who  for  all  our  praying, 

To  this  dear  school  of  ours  come  back  no  more, 

Who  lie  our  country’s  debt  of  honor  paying — 

And  not  m vain — upon  the  Belgian  shore; 

Till  that  great  day  when  at  the  Throne  in  Heaven 
The  books  are  opened  and  the  judgment  set, 

Your  lives  for  honor  and  for  England  given 
The  School  will  not  forget. 

C.  A.  C.,  in  “London  Times.” 

THOSE  AWFUL  NAMES. 

Poet  Laureate’s  Jingle  Applies  as  it  Did  a Century  Ago. 

In  the  Napoleonic  wars,  100  years  ago,  though  the 
English  and  the  Russians  were  joined  in  attack  on  the 
Corsican,  the  quizzical  view  of  Russian  military  meth- 
ods prevailed  in  the  British  Islands.  Southey,  poet 
laureate,  expressed  it  in  his  lines  on  the  march  to  Mos- 
cow: 

There  was  Tormazow  and  Jemalow; 

And  all  the  others  that  end  in  “ow”; 

Milarodovotch  and  Jaladovitch, 

And  all  others  that  end  in  “itch” 

Oscharoffsky  and  Rostoffsky, 


228 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


And  all  the  others  that  end  in  “offsky” 

And  Platoff,  he  played  them  off; 

And  Shouvaloff,  he  shovelled  ’em  off; 

And  Markoff,  he  marked  ’em  off; 

And  Krosnoff,  he  crossed  ’em  off; 

And  Touchoff,  he  touched  ’em  off; 

And  Boroskoff,  he  bored  ’em  off ; 

And  Parenoff,  he  pared  ’em  off; 

And  Kutusoff,  he  cut  ’em  off; 

And  Worronzoff,  he  worried  ’em  off; 

And  Doctoroff,  he  doctored  ’em  off; 

And  Rodionoff,  he  flogged  ’em  off; 

And,  last  of  all,  an  admiral  came, 

A terrible  man  with  a terrible  name, 

A name  which  you  all  know  by  sight  very  well. 

But  which  no  one  can  speak  and  no  one  can  spell. 

What  Russia  did  to  the  great  Napoleon  in  her  own 
territory  she  may  seek  to  do  to  the  Kaiser  in  his  eastern 
provinces.  A new  terror  would  be  lent  to  war  if  these 
names  were  photographed  to  be  thundered  out  by  talk- 
ing machines  in  the  advance  line. — Stray  Stories. 


THE  NEW  NEUTRALITY. 

George  Washington’s  birthday  this  year 
Had  better  in  silence  be  passed; 

He  walloped  our  cousins 
And  licked  them  by  dozens — 

The  day  might  offend  them  at  last. 

The  Fourth  of  July  should  be  skipped, 
The  great  Declaration  ignored; 

The  date  is  so  recent 
It  wouldn’t  be  decent 
To  hint  how  America  scored. 

The  Star  Spangled  Banner  should  hush, 
’Tis  really  a dangerous  screech; 

For  those  words  were  written 
While  fighting  Great  Britain, 

And  might  make  a terrible  breach. 

McLandburgh  Wilson 
In  “New  York  Sun,”  Jan.  31,  1915. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


229 


A GERMAN  REMINDER. 

When  you  call  England  “Mistress  of  the  Seas” 
I trust  you  will  not  fail  to  note  that  I 
With  Zeppelins  navigate  the  bounding  breeze, 
So  why  not  call  me  “Master  of  the  Sky”? 

C.  E.  E.,  in  “New  York  Sun”  Jan.  31,  1915. 


“FROM  THE  NEUTRAL  NATIONS.” 


The  attitude  which  she  believes  the  United  States  is  inclined  to  take  is  ad- 
mirably paraphrased  by  London’s  “Punch”  in  a poem  called  “From  the  Neu- 
tral Nations.” 

“The  recent  boom  in  the  export  of  copper,”  says  “Punch,”  “from  America 
to  the  neutral  nations  is  very  significant.  If  the  enemy’s  supplies  of  this 
article — an  esssential  in  the  manufacture  of  cartridges,  etc. — were  cut  off,  the 
war  would  come  to  a speedy  end.  The  figures  for  September  and  October, 
1914,  show  an  increase  of  nearly  400  per  cent  over  the  corresponding  figures  for 
1913.”  Then  comes  the  poem : 

O,  Britain,  guardian  of  the  seas, 

Whose  gallant  ships  (may  Heaven  speed  ’em) 
Defend  the  wide  world’s  liberties 
Against  the  common  foe  of  Freedom; 

Doubt  not  where  our  true  feelings  lie; 

We  would  not  have  you  come  a cropper, 
Although  it  suits  us  to  supply 
That  common  foe  with  copper. 

Dear  Land  of  Hope,  in  which  we  trust, 

Beneath  whose  ample  wings  we  snuggle, 

Safe  from  the  Kaiser’s  culture-lust 
And  free  to  live  and  smile — and  smuggle; 
Devoted  to  the  peaceful  arts, 

We  keep  our  conduct  strictly  proper, 

Yet  all  the  time  you  have  our  hearts 
(And  Germany  our  copper). 

Although  the  crown  is  theirs  alone 

Who  crush  the  tyrant’s  bold  ambitions, 

Peace  hath  her  profits,  all  her  own, 

Derived  from  contraband  munitions; 

And  you  who  fight  for  Freedom’s  aims 
Will  surely  shrink  to  put  a stopper 
Upon  our  bagmen’s  righteous  claims 
And  burst  the  boom  in  copper. 


230 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Once  more  we  swear  our  hearts  are  true 
And,  like  the  tar’s  connubial  token, 

“It  doesn’t  matter  what  we  do” 

If  we  but  keep  that  pledge  unbroken; 

So  while  we  pray  for  Prussia’s  fall, 

And  look  to  your  stout  arm  to  whop  her, 

We  mean  to  answer  every  call 
She  makes  on  us  for  copper. 

THE  GIRL  I LEFT  BEHIND  ME. 

For  some  reason  or  another,  there  has  been  a great 
dearth  of  popular  marching  songs  among  the  British 
Soldiers.  “ Tipperary,  ” the  latest  and  best,  has  been 
the  most  popular,  but  many  Britishers  regret  that  the 
fine  old  patriotic  songs  of  long  ago  are  not  revived  at 
present.  Among  those  one  of  the  finest  is  “The  girl 
I left  behind  me.”  It  is  said  the  words  were  written 
about  1790,  and  the  Oxfordshire  Militia  marched  to 
the  Downs  above  Brighton  during  the  Napoleonic 
panic  of  1793  to  this  song  which  originally  was  known 
as  “Brighton  Camp.”  There  is  also  an  Irish  version 
of  the  song. 

I’m  lonesome  since  I crossed  the  hill, 

And  o’er  the  moor  and  valley, 

Such  heavy  thoughts  my  heart  do  fill 
Since  parting  with  my  Sally; 

I seek  no  more  the  fine  or  gay, 

For  each  does  but  remind  me 
How  swiftly  passed  the  hours  away 
With  the  girl  I’ve  left  behind  me. 

Oh,  ne’er  shall  I forget  the  night, 

The  stars  were  blight,  above  me, 

And  gently  lent  their  silv’ry  light 
When  first  she  vowed  to  love  me; 

But  now  I’m  bound  to  Brighton  Camp, 

Kind  Heaven  then  pray  guide  me, 

And  send  me  safely  back  again 
To  the  girl  ’Ive  left  behind  me. 

Her  golden  hair  in  ringlets  fair, 

Her  eyes  like  diamonds  shining, 

Her  slender  waist,  with  carriage  chaste, 

May  leave  the  swan  repining. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


231 


Ye  Gods  above!  oh,  hear  my  pray’r, 
To  my  beauteous  fair  to  bind  me 
And  send  me  safely  back  again 
To  the  girl  I’ve  left  behind  me. 

The  bee  shall  honey  taste  no  more, 
The  dove  become  a ranger, 

The  falling  waters  cease  to  roar, 

Ere  I shall  seek  to  change  her. 
The  vows  we  registered  above 
Shall  ever  cheer  and  bind  me 
In  constancy  to  her  I love — 

The  girl  I’ve  left  behind  me. 


“THE  KILTIES  IN  THE  CRIMEA.” 

An  Old  Song  Recalled. 

The  late  exploit  of  the  London  Scottish  calls  to  mind, 
remarks  the  “ Manchester  Guardian”  a robust  old  song, 
“The  Kilties  in  the  Crimea,”  which  might  well  be  re- 
vived with  a little  alteration  at  the  present  day.  It 
was  written  in  1856  by  John  Lorimer,  of  Paisley,  in 
praise  of  the  valor  of  the  kilted  Scottish  regiments,  and 
was  for  many  years  a popular  street  song  all  over  Scot- 
land. The  first  verse  ran: 

The  Kilties  are  the  lads  for  me, 

They’re  aye  the  foremost  in  a spree, 

And  when  they’re  in  they’ll  no’  come  oot 
Tho’  a’  the  warld  should  turn  aboot. 

They’re  no’  the  lads  will  run  awa’, 

But  fecht  while  they  ha’e  breath  to  draw; 
Just  tell  them  whaur  they’ll  meet  the  foe, 
And  shouther  to  shouther  awa’  they  go! 

Chorus : 

Hurrah  for  a’  the  Kiltie  lads, 

Wi’  tartan  plaids  and  white  cockades, 

Just  set  them  doun  before  the  foe, 

And  shouther  to  shouther  awa’  they  go’ 


232 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Though  there  is  no  mention  of  a piper  leading  the  Kil- 
ties’ onslaught  in  Belgium  (the  Crimean  song  declares 
that  “when  the  bagpipes  ga’e  a blaw  the  Turkies  fainted 
clean  awa’”),  history  seems  to  have  repeated  itself 
when — 

wi’  a wild  unearthly  cry 
Up  rushed  the  Kilties  to  the  foe 
And  felled  a man  at  every  blow! 

To  the  Russian  General’s  inquiry,  “Does  any  mortal 
ken  whether  they’re  wild  beasts  or  men?”  Colin 
Campbell,  (so  the  veracious  ballad  said, — replied  that 
the  kilted  lads  were  just  “our  horsemen’s  wives  in  Sun- 
day claes” — a more  respectable  description  than  their 
present  German  nickname — “the  ladies  from  Hell”! 
The  lively  Scottish  minor  tune  of  the  song  is  preserved 
in  the  late  Robert  Ford’s  “Vagabond  Songs  of  Scot- 
land.” 


GOES  A LONG  WAY. 

The  Kaiser  is  said  to  have  stated  in  a “Royal  and 
Imperial  Command,”  that  his  army  should  exterminate 
first  the  treacherous  English  by  annihilating  General 
French’s  “Contemptible  little  army.”  It  has  since 
been  reported  in  the  Press  that  the  Kaiser  never  uttered 
those  famous  words,  but  whether  he  did  or  not  he  has 
probably  realized  the  truth  of  the  lines  that 

Our  Army  may  be  small, 

But  we’ve  shown  before  to-day 
That  a little  British  Army, 

Goes  a damned  long  way. 

— “ Glasgow  News.” 

THE  REDEMPTION  OF  EUROPE. 

Alfred  Noyes 

„ . . donee  templa  refeceris . 

Under  which  banner?  It  was  night 
Beyond  all  nights  that  ever  were. 

The  Cross  was  broken.  Blood-stained  might 
Moved  like  a tiger  from  its  lair; 

And  all  that  heaven  had  died  to  quell 

Awoke,  and  mingle  earth  with  hell. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


233 


For  Europe,  if  it  held  a creed, 

Held  it  through  custom,  not  through  faith. 
Chaos  returned,  in  dream  and  deed. 

Right  was  a legend;  Love— a wraith; 

And  That  from  which  the  world  began 
Was  less  than  even  the  best  in  man. 

God,  in  the  image  of  a Snake 

Dethroned  that  dream,  too  fond,  too  blind, 
The  man-shaped  God  whose  heart  could  break, 
Live,  die,  and  triumph  with  mankind. 

A Super-snake,  a Juggernaut, 

Dethroned  the  highest  of  human  thought. 

The  lists  were  set.  The  eternal  foe. 

Within  us  as  without  grew  strong, 

By  many  a super-subtle  blow 

Blurring  the  lines  of  right  and  wrong 
In  Art  and  Thought,  till  nought  seemed  true 
But  that  soul-slaughtering  cry  of  New! 

New  wreckage  of  the  shrines  we  made 
Thro’  centuries  of  forgotten  tears 
We  knew  not  where  their  scorn  had  laid 
Our  Master.  Twice  a thousand  years 
Had  dulled  the  uncapricious  Sun. 

Manifold  worlds  obscured  the  One. 

Obscured  the  reign  of  law,  our  stay, 

Our  compass  through  this  darkling  sea. 
The  one  sure  light,  the  one  sure  way, 

The  one  firm  base  of  Liberty; 

The  one  firm  road  that  men  have  trod 
Through  Chaos  to  the  Throne  of  God. 

Choose  ye,  a hundred  legions  cried, 

Dishonor  or  the  instant  sword! 

Ye  choose.  Ye  met  that  blood-stained  tide, 

A little  kingdom  kept  its  word; 

And  dying,  cried  across  the  night, 

Hear  us,  O earth,  we  chose  the  Right! 


234 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Whose  is  the  victory?  Though  ye  stood 
Alone  against  the  unmeasured  foe; 

By  all  the  tears,  by  all  the  blood 

That  flowed,  and  have  not  ceased  to  flow; 
By  all  the  legions  that  ye  hurled 
Back,  thro’  the  thunder-shaken  world. 

By  the  old  that  have  not  where  to  rest, 

By  lands  laid  waste  and  hearths  defiled; 
By  every  lacerated  breast, 

And  every  mutilated  child, 

Whose  is  the  victory?  Answer  ye, 

Who,  dying,  smiled  at  tyranny: 

Under  the  sky’s  triumphal  arch 
The  glories  of  the  dawn  begin. 

Our  dead,  our  shadowy  armies  march 
E’en  now,  in  silence,  through  Berlin; 
Dumb  shadows,  tattered  blood-stained  ghosts 
But  cast  by  what  swift  following  hosts? 

And  answer,  England!  At  thy  side, 

Thro’  seas  of  blood,  thro’  mists  of  tears 
Thou  that  for  Liberty  hast  died 

And  livest,  to  the  end  of  years! — 

And  answer,  earth!  Far  off,  I hear 
The  paeans  of  a happier  sphere: 

The  trumpet  blown  at  Marathon 
Resounding  over  earth  and  sea, 

But  burning  angel  lips  have  blown 
The  trumpets  of  thy  Liberty; 

For  wdio,  beside  thy  dead,  could  deem 
The  faith,  for  which  they  died,  a dream? 

Earth  has  not  been  the  same  since  then. 

Europe  from  thee  received  a soul, 
Whence  nations  moved  in  law,  like  men, 

As  members  of  a mightier  whole, 

Till  wars  were  ended  ...  In  that  day, 
So  shall  our  children’s  children  say. 

In  “Boston  Post”  Jan.  27,  1915. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


235 


FAREWELL,  FAREWELL  TO  CANADA. 


r Sent  from  London  by  J.  P.  Reidy  of  Cambridge,  Mass.,  to  the  Boston  “ Post.” 
He  is  now  a member  of  the  Canadian  Field  Artillery,  having  enlisted  in  Can- 
ada and  went  from  there  with  the  first  expeditionary  force  to  England. 

Farewell,  farewell  to  Canada, 

We’ve  out  across  the  sea; 

We’ve  looked  our  last  at  Canada, 

We  sniff  the  ocean  breeze. 

There’s  some  will  sniff  the  cannon’s  breath; 
The  shell  will  burst  for  some, 

But  we’ll  do  our  best  for  Canada 
Whatever  else  may  come. 

Then  let  the  war  notes  clarion  forth, 

The  brazen  trumpets  sound. 

We’ll  all  be  proud  of  Canada 
Wherever  we  are  bound. 

The  Homeland,  the  Homeland, 

The  far  spread  towns  we  go, 

The  broad  Dominion  claims  us  yet 
Wherever  we  may  go. 

Oh.  welcome  to  the  outer  seas, 

That  Britain’s  might  retains; 

For  gladly  yet  the  British  blood 
Goes  coursing  through  our  veins. 

The  hot  blood  surging  strongly  now 
Will  soon  stain  battlefields; 

But  hope  our  loved  ones  left  behind 
They  never  more  shall  yield 

We  are  the  boys  of  Canada, 

From  mountains  and  from  plains. 

They’ll  miss  us  from  the  wild  west  now 
And  from  the  fields  of  grain. 

And  many  a sweetheart’s  eye  will  dim 
And  many  a heart  beat  sore, 

For  a soldier  boy  in  khaki 

Who  has  turned  his  face  to  war. 

By  rugged  Rocky  Mountain  peaks, 

The  grizzly  now  may  roam 

In  Kertnay’s  wilds  the  black-tailed  deer 
May  rest  himself  at  home. 


236 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WOULD  WAE 


By  Athebascas’  winding  trail 
The  moose  may  challenge  long 
For  our  soldier  boys  are  marching 
Where  the  German  legions  throng. 

Farewell;  Farewell,  dear  Canada, 
Till  none  can  answer  when, 

But  till  a bright  day  hath  dawned 
And  peace  hath  come  again. 

Then  when  our  rifles  we’ll  lay  down 
And  old  England’s  again  set  free, 
We’ll  turn  our  face  towards  Canada, 
Our  home  across  the  sea. 


BOYS  IN  KHAKI,  BOYS  IN  BLUE! 

Sing  a song  of  Rule  Britannia! 

Sing  in  praise  of  Britain’s  boys: 

Jolly  Jack,  the  sailor,  with  his  breezy  style, 

Mister  Tommy  Atkins  of  the  rank  and  file. 

They’re  two  lads  we  can  depend  on, 

When  danger  comes  our  way, 

For  their  fathers  were  all  fighters  and  what’s  bred  in  the 
bone 

Is  sure  to  come  out  some  day. 

Sing  a song  of  Rule  Britannia! 

Now  there’s  fighting  work  to  do. 

Ever  staunch  and  ready  when  the  hour  is  nigh, 

British  boys  know  how  to  fight  and  how  to  die. 
Lads,  we  know  you’ll  do  your  duty, 

Whatever  fate  may  bring, 

You  have  got  the  pluck  and  muscle,  so  make  your 
battle  cry — 

For  Empire,  for  Home  and  King! 

Chorus  : 

Boys  in  khaki,  boys  in  blue, 

Here’s  the  best  of  jolly  good  luck  to  you! 

You’re  all  right  in  love  or  war; 

You’ll  get  there  again,  just  the  same  as  you’ve  done 
before. 

Boys  in  khaki,  boys  in  blue 
It’s  no  idle  boast  or  brag, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


237 


When  we  get  you  both  together,  there’s  going  to  be 
dirty  weather, 

For  anyone  who  tramples  on  the  flag! 


WE  DIDN’T  WANT  TO  FIGHT,  BUT  BY  JINGO 
NOW  WE  DO! 

G.  W.  Hunt. 

The  “Dogs  of  War”  are  loose,  for  the  Eagle  of  the  South 
Has  sought  to  fling  defiance  in  the  British  Lion’s  mouth. 
He’s  asked  for  a thrashing,  and  a thrashing  he  will  get, 
Britannia’s  not  prepared  to  scorn  an  insult  yet. 

The  Lion  did  his  best  to  find  him  some  excuse 
To  creep  back  in  his  cage  again;  his  answer  was  abuse. 
He  hungers  for  a victim;  he’s  pleased  when  blood  is  shed, 
But  let  us  hope  his  plans  may  all  recoil  on  his  own  head! 

Since  first  ambitious  AYilliam  commenced  his  little  game, 
He  seemed  to  think  the  Lion  would  prove  an  easy  thing 
to  tame. 

He  started  building  armies,  and  he  started  building 
ships; 

But  he’ll  find  he’s  made  a blunder  when  we  “ come  to 
grips!” 

To  contravene  a treaty  he’s  done  his  level  best— 

An  action  which  all  European  nations  must  detest. 
Before  the  fight  is  over,  we’ll  teach  this  Kaiser  vain, 
There’s  such  a thing  as  HONOR,  and  we’ll  make  the 
lesson  plain ! 

When  Austria  asked  for  aid  the  German  saw  his  chance 
To  send  ultimatum  off  to  Russia  and  to  France. 

He  gave  his  word  to  Belgium,  if  they’d  let  themselves 
be  fooled, 

He’d  treat  them  like  a father  when  the  world  he  ruled! 
But  Belgians  had  the  sense  to  scorn  what  he  proposed. 
He  found  them  less  like  faithful  sons  than  first  he  had 
supposed! 

He  dreamt  that  he  was  drinking  his  fill  from  Vict’ry’s 
cup; 

But  the  gallant  little  Belgians  were  the  first  to  wake 
him  up! 


238 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


We  know  that  here  at  home,  and  in  our  Colonies  abroad, 

All  true-born  sons  of  Britain  are  prepared  to  gird  the 
sword, 

Beneath  the  dear  old  Flag  that  our  fathers  have  un- 
furled, 

We’ll  fight  and  die  for  honor  if  we  fight  against  the 
World! 

So  let  the  Germans  come  to  meet  us  if  they  dare, 

They’ll  find  a warm  reception  if  they  cross  the  Lion’s 
lair! 

We’re  quite  prepared  to  show  this  monarch  of  ill-fame, 

That  we  have  not  forgotten  how  to  play  the  fighting 
game! 


Chorus: 

We  didn’t  want  to  fight,  but  by  jingo  now  we  do, 
We’ve  got  the  ships,  we’ve  got  the  men,  we’ve  got  the 
money  too. 

We’ve  found  a friend  in  need,  to  friends  we  must  be  true, 
We’ll  pluck  the  Eagle’s  talons  out  between  us. 


IRISHMEN  MUST  BE  THERE. 

By  Felix  McGlennon. 

Brave  boys,  Brave  boys,  once  again  our  Empire  is  at 
war, 

Brave  boys,  brave  boys,  Germany  is  going  to  get  “What 
for”; 

Kaiser!  Kaiser!  now  that  you  have  plucked  the  Lion’s 
tail, 

The  Lion’s  roused,  the  Lion’s  roused;  there’s  no  such 
word  as  fail, 

But  when  they  dare  attack  John  Bull  d’ye  mind,  d’ye 
mind, 

They’ll  find  that  Brother  Patsy  is  not  so  far  behind, 

They  thought  that  politicians  would  Irishmen  divide, 

But  John  and  Pat,  as  in  the  past,  will  now  fight  side  by 
side. 

Brave  boys,  brave  boys,  sure  you  all  are  bound  to  be  in 
this, 

Scotch  boys,  Welsh  boys,  here’s  a chance  you  wouldn’t 
like  to  miss. 


SONGS  OP  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


239 


Faithful  always  to  the  glorious  Flag  that  floats  on  high, 

The  gallant  Flag,  the  gallant  Flag,  ’neath  which  we’d 
proudly  die. 

Our  Fleet  can  sail  the  oceans  wide,  d’ye  mind,  d’ye 
mind, 

'Tis  manned  by  four  great  Nations  in  unity  combined; 

’Tis  true  we  sometimes  quarrel  as  brothers  sometimes 
will, 

But  when  the  foeman  face  us,  boys,  they’ll  find  we’re 
brothers  still. 

Brave  boys,  brave  boys,  are  you  ready  for  the  word  to 
go? 

North  Boys,  South  boys,  don’t  you  want  a shindy  with 
the  foe? 

Green  boys,  Orange  boys,  never  mind  your  politicians 
now, 

Your  country  calls,  your  country  calls,  ’tis  Empire 
claims  your  vow, 

We’re  tired  of  bluff  and  bluster  now,  d’ye  mind,  d’ye 
mind, 

And  when  they  talk  of  millions  the  trump  card  we  can 
find, 

Yes,  when  they  talk  of  millions,  we’ve  got  a tidy  sum, 

Bedad,  they’ll  get  what  they  deserve — what  Paddy 
gave  the  drum. 

Chorus: 

And  what  a dear  old  land  to  fight  for! 

What  a grand  old  Nation  still; 

When  we  read  our  history 

How  it  makes  our  hearts’  blood  thrill. 

We  don’t  know  if  the  quarrel’s  right  or  wrong, 
Bedad  we  don’t  care; 

We  only  know  there’s  going  to  be  a fight, 

And  Irishmen  must  be  there. 


HERE’S  TO  THE  DAY. 

Paul  Pelham  and  W.  H.  Wallis. 

Once  again  Britannia’s  sons 
Are  standing  side  by  side, 

The  die  is  cast,  the  day  has  come, 

And  the  sword  must  now  decide. 


240 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


The  German  War  Lord  in  his  pride, 

Has  thrown  the  challenge  down, 

So  in  the  right  we  now  must  fight 
For  England,  Home  and  Crown. 

His  mad  ambition  we’ll  resist, 

We’re  not  afraid  of  his  Mail’d  Fist. 

Once  again  for  Honor’s  sake 
We  rally  round  the  Flag, 

From  English  homes,  from  Erin’s  Isle, 

And  from  Wales  and  Scottish  crag. 

From  sunny  Australasian  shores, 

From  Canada  so  wide, 

Britannia’s  sons  will  man  the  guns, 

All  trusted,  true  and  tried. 

Whatever  comes,  let  this  be  heard, 

“We  made  a pledge,  and  kept  our  word.” 

Chorus: 

“Here’s  to  the  day,”  has  been  their  toast, 
“Here’s  to  the  day,”  has  been  their  boast, 
The  day  has  come,  but  not  our  seeking, 

Bugles  all,  and  guns  are  speaking, 

Thus  our  foe  with  his  mail’d  fist, 

Brags  of  what  he’ll  do. 

We  understand  him  fully, 

We’ll  show  this  German  Bully, 

That  WE’VE  got  a mail’d  fist  too. 

TOMMY  AND  JACK  WILL  SOON  COME 
MARCHING  HOME. 

J.  P.  Long  and  Chas.  Lucas. 

When  the  soldiers  and  sailors  have  to  march  away  to 
war, 

We  feel  sorry  for  the  girls  they  leave  behind  them; 

You  can’t  see  a single  uniform  in  parks  or  shady  lanes — 
As  for  courting  couples,  well,  it’s  hard  to  find  them. 

So  we  have  to  say  a word  of  consolation  to  the  girls, 
For  we  know  they’re  feeling  rather  sad  at  heart, 

All  the  boys  must  do  their  duty,  though  they  long  for 
home  and  beauty 

And  remember,  girls,  although  its  hard  to  part — 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


241 


You  can  occupy  the  time  in  making  wedding  clothes 
and  things, 

And  considering  all  the  details  of  the  trousseau; 
You’ll  need  several  yards  of  this,  you  know,  and  several 
yards  of  that; 

Be  prepared,  for  it’s  advisable  to  do  so. 

Tom  and  Jack  must  both  be  plucky,  so  you  girls  be 
plucky  too. 

Don’t  lose  all  your  pretty  looks  while  they’re  away — 
There’ll  be  nothing  gained  by  weeping,  but  a smile  you 
should  be  keeping, 

Just  to  welcome  them  when  they  come  home  some 
day! 

Chorus  : 

Tommy  and  Jack  will  soon  come  marching  home  again, 
So  cheer  up,  girls,  don’t  sigh — 

You’ll  be  waiting  on  the  quay 
By  and  bye,  by  and  bye. 

Tommy  and  Jack  will  soon  come  marching  home  again, 
So,  girls,  if  faithful  you’ll  remain, 

All  the  parsons  will  be  working  overtime, 

When  Tommy  and  Jack  come  marching  home  again! 


MOTHERLAND,  YOUR  SONS  WILL  ALL  BE 
THERE. 

By  Felix  McGlennon. 

Motherland ! Motherland ! 

You  have  called  upon  your  Sons, 

And  from  ev’ry  corner  of  the  earth 
They  rush  to  man  your  guns. 

Staunch  and  true,  staunch  and  true, 

To  the  flag  we’ll  ever  be, 

We  will  fight  for  our  dear  Motherland, 

And  keep  our  Empire  free 

Motherland ! Motherland ! 

Though  your  sons  have  crossed  the  sea, 
They  have  spread  the  Empire  in  your  name, 
Great,  glorious  and  free, 

Plant  the  Flag,  Plant  the  Flag, 

Let  the  world  know  ’tis  our  dream 
To  never,  never  rest 

Until  our  Empire  is  supreme. 


•242 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


A glorious  vision  I can  see, 

That  thrills  my  heart  with  pride, 

Our  honored  King  surrounded  by 
His  Sons  on  every  side. 

The  English,  Irish,  Scotch,  and  Welsh, 
Canadians,  hand  in  hand, 

Australian  Boys,  New  Zealand  Boys, 

All  love  the  Motherland. 

What  care  we  for  country,  lads? 

’Tis  Empire  is  our  creed, 

Our  proudest  boast — our  parent  stock 
The  grand  old  British  Breed. 

We’re  kinsmen  true,  through  thick  or  thin, 
Unheeding  foeman’s  brag, 

One  land,  One  Language,  One  Great  King, 

One  Glorious  Old  Flag. 

Chorus: 

By  your  side  your  sons  will  take  their  place, 

By  your  side  your  foeman  we  will  face. 
Glories  to  be  won,  there  are  deeds  to  do  or  dare 
And  wherever  the  British  Bull-Dogs  go, 
Your  sons  will  all  be  there. 


FOR  KING  AND  SIRELAND. 

Edward  Montagu. 

There’s  a mighty  little  island, 

Where  the  west  wind  blows, 

Where  the  oak  tree  grows, 

And  the  red,  red  rose; 

And  her  native  sons  have  never 
Failed  to  thrash  her  foes — 

The  whole  world  knows  it  well. 

Though  her  rivals  always  envy  her, 

And  try  to  claim 
That  she’s  not  the  same 
At  the  fighting  game, 

Her  sons  throughout  the  world  will  still  uphold  her 
name. 

And  win  anew  the  glories  of  her  fame. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


243 


If  they  tell  you  that  Britannia 
Far  too  old  has  grown, 

Still  to  stand  alone, 

And  to  hold  her  own, 

Say  her  Colonies  have  British  pluck, 

Bred  in  the  bone, 

As  they  have  shown  so  well. 

There’s  a host  of  dusky  warriors 
On  an  eastern  strand, 

Who  will  lend  a hand 
At  the  King’s  command. 

All  Soldiers  of  the  Empire, 

Side  by  side  will  stand, 

And  e’er  protect  the  dear  old  Motherland. 

Chorus: 

At  duty’s  call  in  line  will  fall, 

Whenever  danger’s  nigh, 

The  boys  who  never  boast  or  brag; 

From  Colonies  beyond  the  seas, 

The  men  who’ll  do  or  die, 

Underneath  the  same  old  Flag. 

The  gallant  Scotch,  the  old  Black  Watch, 
Those  fighting  Highland  boys. 

That  dear  dare-devil  Pat  from  Ireland, 
Tommy  Atkins  tried  and  true, 

Sailor  lads  in  navy  blue, 

Fighting  for  their  King  and  Sireland. 


IRELAND’S  VOLUNTEERS. 

FelixMc  Glennon. 

Ireland’s  in  danger! 

The  cry  rang  throughout  our  land; 

Shall  we  let  the  stranger  invade  our  Sacred  Strand? 

Out  from  the  North  came  a thundering  “NO!” 
Men  from  the  South  said,  “Where  is  the  foe?” 
East  and  West  replied  with  a cheer, 

“We  will  have  no  invaders  here!” 

Says  Redmond,  “Here’s  my  hand!” 

Says  Carson,  “We  together  stand!” 


244 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Ireland’s  in  danger! 

Old  England,  you  want  us  now; 

Pat  was  once  a stranger— 

Hear  ye  his  sacred  vow: 

“Take  all  your  soldiers,  Aye,  every  one — 
If  there  is  fighting  to  be  done, 

Give  a rifle  to  each  Volunteer, 

We  will  defend  Old  Ireland  dear!” 

Says  Redmond,  “Here’s  my  hand!” 

Says  Carson,  “We  together  stand!” 


Ireland’s  United! 

The  old  party  cries  are  gone; 

Bigotry  affrighted 

Has  fled  before  Freedom’s  dawn! 

Out  from  the  north  comes  the  Ulster  call— 

Irish  are  we,  and  we’re  brothers  all; 

South  and  East  and  West  reply, 

“Ireland’s  our  Mother,  for  her  we’d  die!” 

Says  Redmond,  “Here’s  my  hand!” 

Says  Carson,  “We  together  stand.” 

Chorus: 

Ireland’s  Volunteers!  Ireland’s  Volunteers! 
Priests’  men,  Parsons’  men,  Redmond’s  men  and 
Carson’s  men: 

North,  east,  south,  west,  hear  their  rousing  cheers — 
Ireland  is  defended  now,  by  the  Irish  Volunteers! 


IT’S  JUST  LIKE  BEING  AT  HOME. 

William  Hargreaves. 

A Highland  regiment  was  forced  to  start 
To  a distant  land  across  the  foam, 

Whilst  a poor  old  mother,  with  a heavy  heart, 
Waited  anxiously  at  home. 

Soon  her  sad  face  turn’d  into  a smiling  one, 
When  a letter  came  across  the  sea; 

For  it  said,  “Don’t  cry,  don’t  you  sigh! 

“I’m  as  happy  as  can  be.” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


245 


A fierce  fight  lengthened,  and  the  months  dragged  on, 
Whilst  the  roll-call  shorten’d  day  by  day, 

Though  they  saw  their  comrades  falling  one  by  one, 
Yet  they  bravely  fought  their  way, 

For  the  handful  left  had  sworn  to  do  or  die, 

And  with  one  long  cheer  they  forg’d  ahead, 

And  a Highland  lad  fought  like  mad, 

As  the  mother  proudly  read. 

The  flag  was  planted  ’neath  a scorching  sun, 

Where  the  white  man’s  rule  will  ever  reign, 

And  the  brave  Scotch  soldiers  who  had  fought  and  won 
Were  returning  home  again. 

And  the  Highland  mother  watched  the  passing  ranks, 
For  the  face  of  one  she  loved  so  dear, 

And  in  frenzied  joy  kissed  her  boy, 

As  he  whispered  in  her  ear. 

Chorus  : 

There’s  a piper  playing  in  the  morning, 

An  old  Scotch  tune  so  fine, 

There’s  a tartan  plaid  upon  each  laddie, 

And  strains  of  “Auld  Lang  Syne.” 

I can  hear  them  praising  Bonnie  Scotland 
In  every  tent  I roam, 

So  don’t  sigh,  dear, 

I’m  all  right  here, 

It’s  just  like  being  at  home. 


THE  BULLDOG’S  BARK. 

George  R.  Simms  and  Frank  Dix. 

There  are  enemies  around  us  who  are  jealous  of  our 
fame, 

We  have  made  a mighty  empire  and  they’d  like  to  do 
the  same, 

And  they  think  the  way  to  do  it  is  to  catch  us  on  the 
nap, 

While  they  push  our  friends  and  neighbors  from  their 
places  on  the  map. 

But  if  upon  our  property  they’d  trespass  in  the  dark, 

They’il  find  a good  old  watchdog  who  can  bite  as  well 
as  bark. 


246  SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 

We  believe  in  peaceful  methods,  and  on  Peace  our  hopes 
are  set; 

All  that  War  would  cost  the  Nation  we’re  not  likely 
to  forget ; 

We’re  no  cock-a-doodle  people  who  are  crowing  for  a 
fight, 

But  we  mean  to  keep  our  motto  of  “Our  country 
and  our  right.” 

Of  the  banner  of  our  empire  we  will  guard  each  sacred 
fold, 

And  our  message  to  the  world  is,  “What  we  have 
we  mean  to  hold.” 

Chorus  : 

In  the  annals  of  our  race,  we  have  always  held  our  place, 
And,  by  jingo,  if  it’s  coming  to  a mill, 

We’ve  the  ships,  and  we’ve  the  men,  strong  and  steady 
now  as  then — 

And  we  mean  to  be  the  top  dog  still, 

Bov/!  wow!  yes!  we  mean  to  be  the  top  dog  still. 

SONS  OF  AUSTRALIA. 

Felix  McGlennon. 

Sons  of  Australia,  hear  the  Mother  calling, 

Calling  to  her  sons  who’re  scatter’d  far  and  wide; 

Sons  of  Australia,  hear  those  insults  galling, 

She  who  bore  you  wants  her  offspring  standing  by 
her  side! 

Bred  for  fighting,  built  to  stay, 

Never  yielding,  never  knew  the  way, 

When  they  defied  our  Mother,  threaten’d  with  their 
guns, 

Did  they  think  that  such  a Grand  Old  Mother  had 
no  sons? 

Sons  of  Australia,  are  your  pulses  thrilling, 

Thrilling  at  the  chance  to  thrash  your  Empire’s  foes? 

Sons  of  Australia,  how  your  ranks  are  filling, 

As  you  think  of  Motherland,  your  heart’s  blood 
quicker  flows. 

Pluck  and  muscle,  blood  and  brain, 

Born  of  heroes  link’d  in  Empire’s  Chain, 

Proud  of  your  grand  old  birthright,  glorious  and  free, 
Mighty  monarch  of  the  Nation — ruler  of  the  sea. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


247 


Sons  of  Australia,  read  your  Empire’s  story, 

How  your  fathers  built  it — shall  that  Empire  wane? 
Sons  of  Australia,  ne’er  must  fade  their  glory, 

Vow  what  gallant  sires  have  fought  for,  their  sons 
will  maintain ! 

Heav’n  hath  willed  it— ’tis  decreed, 

World-wide  rulers — we  the  grand  old  breed, 

We  who  have  fought  for  freedom — scorning  all  things 
base — 

Must  fulfil  our  destiny  to  be  the  ruling  race. 


SONS  OF  THE  SEA. 

Felix  McGlennon. 

Have  you  heard  the  German  Eagle  scream, 

O’er  the  world  so  vauntingly? 

Do  you  know  the  mighty  Kaiser’s  dream, 

Why  he  speaks  so  tauntingly? 

Have  you  heard  he  built  a mighty  Fleet, 

Ruler  of  the  World  he’d  be; 

He  imagines  he  can  break  or  bend 

The  men  who’ve  been,  and  ever  will  be,  free. 

But  one  thing  we  possess,  they  forget,  they  forget, 
The  Lads  in  Blue,  they’ve  met,  often  met,  often  met. 

Have  you  heard  they’ll  come  in  battle  line? 

Then  we’ll  test  their  bravery. 

Do  you  know  they’d  like  to  sweep  the  brine, 

Bind  us,  lads,  in  slavery? 

They  imagine  battleships  in  air, 

Submarines  and  guns  will  do, 

But  we  know  ’twas  British  hearts  of  oak, 

In  every  battle  pulled  us  safely  through. 

For  one  thing  we  possess,  they  forget,  they  forget, 
The  Lads  in  Blue  they’ve  met,  often  met,  often  met. 

If  they’d  know  why  Britons  rule  the  waves, 

If  they’d  solve  the  mystery, 

If  they’d  know  the  deeds  of  Britons  Braves, 

Let  them  read  their  history, 

Let  them  search  the  bottom  of  the  seas, 

Where  their  battered  hulks  now  lie, 


248 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Let  them  build  their  puny  ships  of  war, 

We  build  men  prepared  to  do  or  die. 

There’s  one  thing  we  possess  they  forget,  they  forget, 
The  Lads  in  Blue  they’ve  met,  often  met,  often  met. 

Chorus: 

Sons  of  the  Sea,  all  British  born, 

Sailing  ev’ry  ocean,  laughing  foes  to  scorn, 

They  may  build  their  ships,  my  lads, 

L\-  And  think  they  know  the  game, 

But  they  can’t  build  the  Boys  of  the  Bulldog  Breed, 
Who  made  old  England’s  name. 


YOUR  KINO  AND  COUNTRY  WANT  YOU. 

Paul  A.  Rubens. 

We’ve  watched  you  playing  cricket, 

And  ev’ry  kind  of  game, 

At  football,  golf  and  polo, 

You  men  have  made  your  name. 

But  now  your  country  calls  you, 

To  play  your  part  in  war, 

And  no  matter  what  befalls  you, 

We  shall  love  you  all  the  more, 

So  come  and  join  the  forces, 

As  your  fathers  did  before. 

We  want  you  from  all  quarters, 

So  help,  us,  south  and  north, 

We  want  you  in  your  thousands, 

From  Falmouth  to  the  Forth, 

You’ll  never  find  us  fail  you, 

When  you  are  in  distress, 

So,  answer  when  we  hail  you, 

And  let  the  word  be  “Yes,” 

And  so  your  name  in  years  to  come, 

Each  mother’s  son  shall  bless. 

It’s  easy  for  us  women, 

To  stay  at  home  and  shout, 

But  remember  there’s  a duty, 

To  the  men  who  first  went  out. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


249 


The  odds  against  that  handful. 

Were  nearly  four  to  one, 

And  we  cannot  rest  until 

It’s  man  for  man  and  gun  for  gun. 

And  every  woman’s  duty 
Is  to  see  that  duty  done. 

Chorus  : 

Oh,  we  don’t  want  to  lose  you, 

But  we  think  you  ought  to  go, 

For  your  King  and  country 
Both  need  you  so; 

We  shall  want  you  and  miss  you, 

But  with  all  our  might  and  main, 

We  shall  cheer  you,  thank  you,  bless  you. 
When  you  come  back  again. 


STICK  TO  YOUR  GUNS. 

Arthur  Wimperis. 

We  didn’t  pick  the  quarrel,  and  we  didn’t  want  the  row, 

We’d  have  stopped  it  if  they  gave  us  half  a chance; 

But  the  beggars  wouldn’t  have  it,  and  we’re  fairly  in  it 
now, 

For  it’s  up  to  us  to  keep  our  faith  with  France. 

There’s  not  much  good  in  talking  when  there’s  fighting 
to  be  done, 

Or  in  cheering  at  a London  music  hall; 

What  we  really  want  to  see  is  ev’ry  man  behind  a gun, 

For  it  looks  as  tho’  the  country  needs  ’em  all. 

So  come  along,  of  every  kind  and  character  and  cut, 

The  time  has  come  to  show  us  what  you’re  worth, 

The  “Brickie”  and  the  Barrister,  the  “Navvy”  and 
the  “Nut,” 

And  our  cousins  from  the  corners  of  the  earth. 

You’re  the  same  old  solid  Britons,  with  the  same  old 
solid  grit, 

That  has  always  pull’d  our  little  Island  thro’ 

And  the  dear  old  country’s  calling,  and  you’ve  got  to 
do  your  bit, 

For  the  sake  of  all  that  England  means  to  you! 


250 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Chorus: 

Sons  of  the  dear  old  country, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  stand, 

Side  by  side,  as  our  fathers  died 
For  the  sake  of  the  Motherland. 
As  in  the  days  of  Nelson, 

Bravely  the  signal  runs— 
“England  expects  that  every  man. 
Will  stick  to  the  country’s  guns.” 


SONS  OF  ENGLAND,  SONS  OF  WALES. 

Paul  Pelham  and  W.  H.  Wallis. 

Mother  England,  how  we  love  you  and  our  happy  Is- 
land home! 

Our  love  for  you  is  burning  true. 

Your  sons  will  ne’er  forget  you,  tho’  they’re  miles  across 
the  foam — 

Never  do — they’re  proud  of  you. 

And  when  the  home’s  in  danger,  and  there’s  thunder 
in  the  air 

Mother  England,  you  will  find  your  boys  all  gathered 
there. 

Mother  England,  you’ve  an  Empire  that’s  the  envy  of 
our  foes 

Far  and  wide,  and  woe  betide 

The  one  who  dares  to  slight  you  or  disturb  your  calm 
repose! 

By  your  side,  true  and  tried, 

You’ll  find  a band  of  brothers  who  have  left  the  bench 
and  plow 

To  fight  for  England’s  hearths  and  homes,  as  only 
they  know  how. 

Chorus: 

Sons  of  England,  Sons  of  Wales, 

Sons  of  Scotland’s  hills  and  dales, 

Sons  of  Erin,  Ireland’s  pride, 

Steadily  shoulder  to  shoulder, 

Come  what  may,  we’re  brothers  all, 

Come  what  may  it’s  duty’s  call, 

Come  what  may,  we’ll  stand  or  fall, 

For  the  love  of  dear  old  Mother  England. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


251 


SISTER  SUSIE’S  SEWING  SHIRTS  FOR 
SOLDIERS. 

R.  P.  Weston. 

Sister  Susie’s  sewing  in  the  kitchen  on  a “Singer” 

There’s  miles  and  miles  of  flannel  on  the  floor  and  up 
the  stairs 

And  father  says  it’s  rotten,  getting  mixed  up  with  the 
cotton 

And  sitting  on  the  needles  that  she  leaves  upon  the 
chairs. 

And  should  you  knock  at  our  street  door,  Ma  whispers 
“Come  inside!” 

Then  when  you  ask  where  Susie  is,  she  says  with 
loving  pride, 


Chorus: 

Sister  Susie’s  sewing  shirts  for  soldiers, 

Such  skill  at  sewing  shirts  our  shy  young  sister  Susie 
shows! 

Some  soldiers  sent  epistles,  say  they’d  “sooner  sleep  in 
thistles, 

Than  the  saucy,  soft,  short  shirts  for  soldiers,  sister 
Susie  sews.” 

Piles  and  piles  of  shirts  she  sends  out  to  the  soldiers, 

And  sailors  won’t  be  jealous  when  they  see  them,  not 
at  all, 

And  when  we  say  her  stitching  will  set  all  the  soldiers 
itching, 

She  says,  “Our  soldiers  fight  best  when  their  back’s 
against  the  wall.” 

And  little  brother  Gussie,  he  who  lisps  when  he  says 
‘yes,’ 

Says,  “Where’s  the  cotton  gone  from  off  my  kite? 
Oh,  I can  gueth” 


Chorus: 

Sister  Susie’s  sewing  shirts  for  soldiers,  etc. 


252 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


BELINDA’S  CHRISTMAS  DUFF. 

’Twas  in  the  year  when  Germany 
Smashed  up  all  Europe’s  peace, 

And  Britannia’s  Fleet  was  ordered  out 
The  ocean  to  police. 

Belinda  then  was  all  dismayed, 

Poor  Jack,  far  far  from  home, 

Would  spend  a duff-less  Christmas  tide 
Upon  the  bounding  foam. 

“I’ll  give  dear  Jack  a real  surprise, 

A proper  mother’s  treat: 

The  Christmas  pudding  that  I’ll  send 
He  cannot  help  but  eat.” 

Although  her  cooking  never  had 
Gone  past  plain  apple  tart, 

She  guessed,  with  “Mrs.  Beeton’s”  aid 
To  make  a real  good  start. 

Her  own  fair  hands  soon  stoned  the  plums, 
She  even  chopped  the  suet, 

And  vowed  this  pudding  would  be  hers 
No  other  one  would  do  it. 

The  duff  was  made,  a good  y one, 

And  packed  up  strong  and  neat. 

And  reached,  eventually,  Dear  Jack, 

On  board  the  “Squirt,”  Grand  Fleet. 

“Belinda,  sweetheart,  what  is  this?” 

He  muttered  as  he  hacked, 

But  after  thirty  minutes’  work 
’Twas  neither  bent  nor  cracked. 

Then  suddenly  the  bugle  call 
Gave  out  its  shrill  alarm, 

And  Jack  closed  up  as  turret’s  crew 
The  pudding  ’neatli  his  arm. 

The  German  Fleet  was  out  from  Kiel 
The  order  came  to  load, 

And  Jack  he  wasted  not  a tick, 

Belinda’s  duff  was  stowed. 

Just  what  trajectory  was  reached 
I really  cannot  say, 

But  all  was  well  until  a ship 
Got  in  its  hurried  way. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


253 


The  battle-cruiser  “Von  der  Tann” 
Went  up  in  one  big  puff, 

As  her  magazine  was  punctured 
By  Belinda’s  Christmas  duff! 


ONLY  A SCRAP  OF  PAPER. 


Only  a scrap  of  paper, 

Only  a Teuton’s  word, 

To  stay  the  march  of  an  army 
And  the  mighty  German  sword. 

Then  put  the  scrip  to  the  taper, 
Let  loose  the  Prussian  horde — 

It’s  only  a scrap  of  paper. 
Bearing  the  Kaiser’s  word. 

Only  a scrap  of  paper, 

Only  a Briton’s  word, 

Behind  it  stands  his  navy 
With  a million  tars  aboard. 

Do  ye  think  ’tis  but  a vapor? 

A boast  from  England  heard — 

It’s  only  a scrap  of  paper 
Bearing  a Briton’s  word. 


The  hearts  of  Scotch  and  Irish 
Beat  time  to  the  English  drum; 

Canadians  and  hardy  Bushmen 
Are  singing  as  they  come. 

For  the  call  of  the  British  drumbeat 
Around  the  world  is  heard — 

They’ll  die  for  that  scrap  of  paper 
For  ENGLAND  KEEPS  HER  WORD! 


Worcester,  Mass. 


Odiorne  Gleason. 


TO  WILHELM  II 

Marplot  of  war,  Knight  of  the  tarnished  mail! 
You  say  the  sword  was  thrust  into  your  hand; 
’Twas  Belgium’s  blame  you  trod  across  her  land; 
And  English  will  would  now  your  fame  assail. 
Against  God’s  word,  how  shall  your  lies  prevail? 
Your  honor’s  torn  to  rags  at  His  command; 


254 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Mercy  and  justice  long  have  fled  your  land; 

And  even  your  brute  force  at  last  will  fail. 

In  trumpet  tones  beyond  the  cannon’s  roar, 

The  truth  proclaims  you  false  forevermore. 

Can  you  not  read  the  writing  on  the  wall? 

Ye  who  the  damned  orgy  set  beside, 

A new  Belshazzar,  drunken  in  your  pride, 

Ere  a new  Daniel  prophesy  your  fall! 

Henry  Harmon  Chamberlin. 


THE  VAGUE  TRIBUNAL. 

The  following  poem,  written  by  Dr.  Charles  E.  H.  Higgins  of  Worcester, 
was  published  in  the  “Gazette"  July  30,  1904.  It  is  strangely  prophetic  in 
view  of  what  has  taken  place  in  Europe  the  past  seven  months. 

The  Eagle,  Lion  and  the  Bear, 

And  others  from  afar  and  near, 

Once  met  and  talked  of  friendships  rare, 

And  called  each  other  “dear.” 

And  the  vague  tribunal  met. 

Then  they,  well  groomed  and  fully  fed, 
Swapped  compliments  from  day  to  day, 
Until  the  feeling  sort  of  spread 
As  brothers  bound  were  they; 

And  the  vague  tribunal  talked. 

Like  all  menageries  that  tent 

From  place  to  place  in  summer  time, 

With  fond  adieus  they  broke  and  went, 

Each  to  his  native  clime; 

And  the  vague  tribunal  closed. 

Now,  while  the  smoke  of  battle  rolls 
From  off  the  Oriental  shore, 

Let  fingers  dipped  in  blood-filled  bowls 
Paint  this,  the  wide  world  o’er: 

The  vague  tribunal  sleeps — 
*****  and  reaps — 

* * * blood. 


They  never  fail  who  die  in  a great  cause. 

— Byron. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


255 


BIRDS  OF  EMPIRE. 

O Frederich  Barbarossa, 

Wake,  you  are  needed  now! 

The  Fatherland’s  in  danger; 

The  ravens  leave  the  howe. 

They  drive  against  the  storm  wind, 
Toward  Ypres’  misty  plain; 

Afar  they  scent  the  carnage, 

The  heaps  of  German  slain. 

O’er  Dixmude’s  smoldering  ruins, 

They  raise  their  baneful  cry, 

Where  Prussia’s  fated  thousands, 

In  bloody  harvest  lie. 

O’er  Polish  bogs  and  marshes, 

By  Warta’s  crimson  stream. 

O’er  broken  guns  and  eagles, 

Loud,  loud  the  raven’s  scream. 

In  the  Vosges  the  frozen  passes, 

In  the  Argonne  forest  frore, 

They  croak  the  German  dirges 
For  an  empire  lost  once  more. 

0 Frederich  Barbarossa 

You’ve  slumbered  all  too  long! 

Your  sons  forgot  their  knighthood, 
And  dreamed  a rule  of  wrong. 

They  spurned  the  ermined  mantle 
Of  Justice,  Truth  and  Right. 

For  crown  and  consecration 

They  sought  the  Prince  of  Night. 

Hark,  how  the  circling  ravens 

Scream  o’er  their  murdering  hordes, 

Forboding  fresh  disaster 

For  their  dishonored  swords! 

In  vain  they  rage  and  ruin, 

Pillage  and  sack  in  vain; 

For  the  ravens  scream  above  them. 
And  gorge  upon  their  slain. 


256 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Yea,  in  the  fields  of  Europe, 

Where  shadowy  Twilight  gropes, 
They  glut  them  on  the  heart’s  blood 
Of  slaughtered  German  hopes. 
Henry  Harmon  Chamberlin. 
In  “Worcester  Gazette.” 


LUSITANIA. 

A Reply. 

Yes  Johnny  Bull  even  yet  can  boast 
His  prowess  on  the  sea. 

His  sons  and  daughters  all  will  toast 
Him  on  to  victory. 

Seven  months  or  more  the  war  is  on 
And  England’s  swept  the  sea. 

She  licked  the  foemen  one  by  one; 

And  keeps  our  commerce  free. 

She  hid  behind  “Old  Glory” — true. 

To  save  her  treasure; — life. 

And  bring  financial  gain  to  you, 

Your  children,  and  your  wife. 

Let  us  not,  then,  with  braggart  tongue 
Speak  lightly  of  the  deed, 

For  all  admit  she  did  no  wrong 
In  serving  her  own  need. 

Thomas  Brown. 


THE  MEN  BEHIND  THE  TUBE. 
(Torpedo=Boat  Destroyer  Flotilla.) 

By  Harold  Steele  in  “Pearson’s  Weekly.” 

The  battleship,  she  rules  the  seas; 

The  cruiser  helps  her  out; 

The  men  that  man  her  hungry  guns 
Are  men  indeed,  and  stout. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


257 


But  none  of  all  those  sailormen, 

With  steady  brain  and  eye, 

Can  teach  the  swift  destroyer’s  crew 
The  way  to  fight  and  die! 

While  the  man  in  the  cruiser  is  sleepin’, 

The  rain  drummin’  over  ’is  ’ead. 

The  little  destroyers  are  creepin’, 

The  mouth  o’  their  stacks  glowin’  red, 

Out  through  the  night  an’  the  darkness, 

Lashed  by  the  spray  an’  the  wind, 

For  we’re  out  an’  away  at  the  break  o’  the  day 
A-leavin’  the  slow  ’uns  be’ind! 

If  the  man  in  the  cruiser  is  dyin’, 

The  yell  o’  ’is  armament  done, 

The  crash  o’  the  wireless  a-crying 
Will  bring  us  around  on  the  run. 

We  don’t  do  the  most  o’  the  shoutin’! 

We  fight,  an’  we  give  it  ’em  ’ot, 

For  it’s  God  for  the  best  at  the  tube-layin’  test, 

An’  ’ell  for  the  one  wot  gets  shot. 

When  the  panicky  search-lights  are  flittin’ 

An’  the  seas  are  aflood  wi’  the  light,. 

The  fear-maddened  guns  begin  spittin’ 

As  soon  as  we  come  into  sight. 

We  ’erd  them  like  sheep  as  we  kill  them, 

They  glow  in  their  ’alos  o’  flame; 

Then  it’s  death  at  a blow  for  the  man  ’oo  is  slow, 

An’  life  for  the  man  who  can  aim! 

We  are  pawns  in  the  game — never  counted — 

But  pawns  that  have  learned  ’ow  to  die. 

For,  when  ev’ry  gun  is  dismounted 
An’  all  o’  the  tubes  is  awry, 

The  boats  driftin’  wrecks  on  the  combers 
An’  water  aroar  in  the  hold, 

We  stand  till  we  drown  an’  the  vessel  goes  down — 
The  same  as  our  fathers  of  old! 

The  bugles  are  wailin’  “Goodbye-!” 

There’s  blood  in  the  sea  an’  the  sky, 

Keep  touch  as  you  go — What’s  that  thunder  below? 
The  bulkheads  what’s  gone — an’  now  we  must  go 


258 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


The  same  as  our  fathers  of  old — 

Cap  the  quarter-deck ! — 

The  same  as  our  fathers  of  old! 

The  battleship,  she  rules  the  seas; 

The  cruiser  helps  her  out; 

The  men  that  man  her  hungry  guns 
Are  men  indeed,  and  stout. 

But  none  of  all  those  sailormen, 
With  steady  brain  and  eye, 

Can  teach  the  swift  destroyer’s  crew, 
The  way  to  fight  and  die! 


THE  BRITISH  BULLDOG’S  WATCHING 
AT  THE  DOOR. 

By  Harry  Lauder 

The  latest  song  written  by  the  popular  Scotch  comedian,  whose  son  is  lieuten- 
ant in  the  Argyle  and  Sutherland  Highlanders  (Territorials). 

It’s  a dear  old  land  is  the  Motherland, 

And  when  she  sounds  the  call, 

Her  boys  in  the  far-off  other-lands 
Obey  it  one  and  all. 

For  it’s  every  Briton’s  duty 
To  do  what  he  can  do 
To  defend  our  British  Empire, 

To  stand  and  see  her  through. 

Chorus; 

For  it’s  a dear  old  land  is  the  Motherland, 

Her  sons  are  ever  true; 

Her  boys  in  the  far-off  other-lands 
Will  see  her  through  and  through. 

It’s  a dear  old  home  is  the  Homeland; 

It’s  as  good  as  in  days  of  yore; 

We  are  steady,  aye,  and  ready, 

While  the  British  Bulldog’s  watching  at  the  door. 

It’s  a peaceful  land  is  the  Motherland; 

We  never  want  to  fight, 

But  shoulder  to  shoulder  we’ll  ever  stand 
For  everything  that’s  right. 


SONGS  OP  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


259 


It’s  a dear  old  home  the  Homeland, 

We  love  her  more  and  more; 

We’ll  fight  the  German  might  down 
As  we’ve  never  done  before. 

It’s  a grand  old  land  is  the  Motherland, 
So  let  us  pledge  that  we 
Will  all  stand  by  our  Motherland 
That  Britons  shall  be  free; 

And  that  the  glory  of  our  Empire 
From  us  will  never  fade, 

That  Britons  ever  will  defend 
The  land  our  fathers  made. 


THE  MEN  OF  AIRLY. 

The  Highland  men  are  marching,  Evan,  marching  in 
their  pride, 

Down  from  stretching  glen  and  moorland  and  the  far 
loch  side, 

Marching  at  the  call  of  battle  through  the  pastures 
wide 

Of  the  heath-brown  haughs  of  Strathairly. 

Hark!  it  is  the  Clansmen’s  tread — ’tis  I that  well  should 
know! 

Men  with  set  and  fearless  faces,  eager  for  the  foe; 

Rise  and  take  your  rifle,  laddie,  buckle  on  and  go 

From  the  old  fond  home  in  Strathairly. 

Would  to  God  I had  again  the  strength  that  once  I 
knew 

When  over  Egypt’s  bloody  sod  we  charged  the  craven 
crew, 

And  in  the  foremost  fighting  rank  were  fifty  bonnets 
blue 

From  the  far,  leal  hearths  of  Strathairly. 

Now  the  day  of  youth  is  past  and  years  but  sorrows 
bring, 

You  are  all  I have  to  give  for  country  and  for  king; 

You  are  all  my  treasure,  Evan,  go  and  lustre  bring 

To  the  fair,  fam’d  name  of  Strathairly. 


260 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Go — and  when  the  foe  you  meet  as  soldier  should  be 
met, 

When  Death  with  reeking  blade  drives  on  through  fields 
of  blood  and  sweat, 

Remember  that  your  father,  lad,  is  praying  for  you  yet 
In  the  quiet,  grey  kirk  of  Strathairly. 

M.  M. 


AMERICA’S  DEBT. 

THOU,  daughter  of  the  Motherland, 
America  the  free, 

Know’st  thou  the  debt  thou  owest  her, 
England  beyond  the  sea? 

Thou  shar’st  with  her,  her  speech,  her  laws, 
Thou  heir  of  all  her  might, 

Her  spirit  ever  breathes  in  thee 
Thou  Champion  of  Right. 

The  Torch  thou  holdest  to  the  world, 

The  Beacon  of  the  sea, 

That  Torch  at  her  Torch  thou  did’st  light, 
The  Torch  of  Liberty. 

Thy  path  to  Freedom  she  did  carve 
Upon  fair  Runny mede, 

The  Magna  Charta  there  was  sealed, 

Sweet  Liberty’s  first  creed. 

Thy  Greater  Charter  had  not  been, 

Save  for  her  Charter  Great, 

That  was  thy  first  foundation-stone 
On  that  thou  reared’st  thy  State. 

’T  was  writ  in  laws  inscrutable, 

That  thou  should ’st  bear  full  sway, 

It  was  decreed  that  thou  should’st  be 
The  nations  Open  Way. 

Enthroned  thou  by  all  the  world, 

And  by  all  laurel-crowned, 

Forget  not  thou  thy  Motherland 
The  Great,  the  Most  renowned. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


261 


Thou  mother  and  thou  daughter  are 
The  lode-stones  of  the  earth, 

The  whole  world  looks  to  what  ye  do, 

Ye  twain  of  sterling  worth. 

Thou  daughter  of  the  Motherland, 

America  the  free, 

Forget  not  what  thou  owest  her 
England  beyond  the  sea. 

0 Mother  great!  0 Daughter  great! 

From  furthest  shore  to  shore, 

God  keep  you  and  God  prosper  you 
Till  nations  are  no  more! 

George  Calvert. 


THE  CHANT  OF  LOVE. 


By  Essex  Dane  Lewis.  A reply  to  “The  Chant  of  Hate,”  which  appeared 

in  the  New  York  Herald  of  Feb.  7,  and  kindly  sent  us  by  Mrs.  G.  H.  Harring- 
ton. “The  Chant  of  Love,”  contains  a noble  sentiment  which  will  be 

echoed  in  the  hearts  of  all  who  love  peace. 

(A  REPLY.) 

“Love  is  stronger  than  hate.” 

Now  the  paean  of  hate  is  spoken,  and  the  psalm  of 
wrath  is  sung, 

What  sound  from  the  British  legions — from  the  battle 
lines  far  flung? 

From  the  watchers  in  the  trenches — from  the  watchers 
on  the  seas — 

From  Britain’s  swarming  multitudes  in  other  lands  than 
these? 

From  India’s  faithful  millions — from  Canada,  astir? 

From  unknown,  vast  Australia — New  Zealand,  what  of 
her? 

“We  are  coming,  Mother  England — we  are  sworn  to 
keep  you  free — - 

Not  from  hate  of  German  brothers,  but  from  ‘love  we 
bear  to  thee.  ’ 

Your  flag  has  flown  for  justice,  it  shall  never  droop  to 
dust; 

Your  sons  are  here  to  champion  you  in  the  quarrel  that 
is  just, 

We  will  never  forego  our  love — 


262 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


We  have  all  but  a single  love; 

We  love  as  one,  we  have  hate  for  none; 

We  have  one  thought,  and  one  alone- — 

ENGLAND. 

“We  swing  our  swords  for  the  liberty  your  enemies  re- 
fuse; 

For  the  right  to  live  as  freemen  and  to  grow  to  God  as 
we  choose ; 

No  room  in  our  hearts  for  hatred,  no  hate  for  those  who 
hate. 

Hate  is  a leaden  weapon,  and  the  law  of  love  is  great! 

And  the  freedom  we  claim  for  England  we  claim  for  all 
who  live. 

To  those  who  would  wrest  it  from  us,  that  freedom  we 
would  give ; 

Freedom  from  king  and  despot,  freedom  from  war’s 
decree, 

From  the  warrior-idol,  Baal,  to  whom  they  bow  the 
knee. 

From  the  thrall  of  their  smug  professors,  sunk  in  sophis- 
tries and  lies; 

From  their  frozen,  Christless  theories,  their  false  phil- 
osophies. 

Their  women,  steeped  in  servitude — so  deep  they  feel 
no  chain, 

Meek  makers  of  ‘ cannon  fodder,  ’ child  bearers  all  in 
vain. 

From  a madman,  mouthing  blasphemies  in  the  name  of 
the  God  of  Love, 

Who  forgets  the  stench  from  the  rotting  trench,  that 
rises  to  heaven  above. 

From  these  and  from  their  rulers,  who  ‘ stones  for  bread’ 
dare  give, 

Lord  Christ  deliver  England  and  make  these  “dead  to 
live.” 

We  will  never  forego  our  love — 

We  have  all  but  a single  love; 

We  love  as  one,  we  have  hate  for  none; 

We  have  one  thought,  and  one  alone — 

ENGLAND. 

“When  the  agony  is  ended,  when  the  last  man  shall 
have  died, 

Join  with  us,  German  brothers,  march  with  us  stride 
for  stride, 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


263 


Let  us  work  together  for  glory,  let  us  build  together  for 
peace ; 

Let  us  build  the  cause  of  the  peoples  so  strong  that  wars 
shall  cease; 

No  nation  bound  by  another,  except  for  the  utmost 
good. 

To  bring  its  share  for  the  use  of  all,  in  the  human  broth- 
erhood, 

And  England  shall  bring  her  navies,  her  mighty  power 
on  the  sea, 

And  Germany  her  commerce  and  France  her  artistry, 

America  her  native  wealth,  Australia  her  golden  hoard, 

And  every  nation  come  with  gifts  to  Earth’s  Temple 
of  the  Lord. 

Till  you  answer  to  our  calling,  till  the  song  of  hatred 
dies, 

The  love  chant  of  Great  Britain’s  sons  will  thunder  to 
the  skies — 

We  will  never  forego  our  love — 

We  have  but  all  a single  love; 

We  love  as  one,  we  have  hate  for  none; 

We  have  one  thought,  and  one  alone — 

ENGLAND.” 


THE  CHANT  OF  PEACE. 

By  Annette  Kohn  in  “New  York  Herald.” 

Written  in  response  to  the  ‘‘Chant  of  Hate”  against  England. 

God  of  the  nations  all, 

Of  all  the  nations  God, 

Let  all  the  gods  be  slain 
And  Thou  reign  God  alone. 

By  rivers  red  with  blood, 

From  trenches  deep  and  wide, 

O’er  meadows  piled  with  dead, 

From  ruined  hearths  and  homes, 
From  widows  faint  with  woe, 

From  orphans  left  forlorn, 

From  mothers  blind  with  tears, 

From  maidens  robbed  of  hope 
Invisible  will  rise 
A chorus  that  shall  swell 
To  shake  the  ravished  earth 
And  drown  all  other  sounds. 


264 


SONGS  OP  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Its  voice  it  will  make  heard, 
So  that  the  shot  and  shell, 
The  steel  and  flaming  torch, 
And  all  these  fires  of  hell, 
Destroy  hate,  envy,  lust, 
The  greed  of  land  and  gold; 
Burn  out  of  human  hearts 
The  passions  that  consume. 
Turn  soldiers  back  to  men, 
And  men  to  brothers  all; 
Turn  bullets’  songs  of  death 
To  seraphs’  songs  of  peace. 
When  all  false  gods  are  slain 
Thou,  King,  shalt  reign  alone; 
O’er  all  the  seas  and  lands 
Thy  banner  float  of  PEACE. 


SCOTLAND! 

Men  of  the  moss-hags,  and  men  of  the  heather, 

Men  of  the  mountains,  and  men  of  the  dale, 
Highland  and  lowland,  alone  and  together, 

Fight  with  the  valor  that  never  would  quail. 

Sons  of  the  spearsmen,  immortal  with  Flodden, 

Rally  again,  ’tis  your  country  that  needs; 

Sons  of  the  claymore,  remember  Culloden, 

Rise  with  the  wrath  of  your  forefathers’  deeds. 

Rise  like  the  mists,  proud  nature  but  weeping, 

Flock  where  auld  Scotland’s  gay  banners’  unfurled 
Rouse  ye  and  fight.  Who  says  ye  are  sleeping? 
Scotland,  your  guerdon’s  the  praise  of  the  world. 

Freedom  has  aye  been  thy  proudest  possession. 

Oppression  ne’er  harbored  nor  havened  in  thee, 
Liberty  aye  was  with  thee  an  obsession, 

Scotland  aye  glorious!  Scotland  aye  free! 

Blasted  the  limbs  of  the  coward  and  laggard,; 

Palsied  the  arm  that  is  recreant  now; 

Silence  for  ever  the  whine  of  the  braggard, 

Enlaurel  forever  sweet  Liberty’s  brow. 

John  Swan,  Detroit,  Michigan,  in  the  “Scotsman,  ’* 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


265 


FOR  ENGLAND. 

To  certain  American  Merchants. 

Ye  who  for  Germany’s  gain 
Would  break  the  British  fleet, 

And  sell  your  copper  and  wheat 
For  a price  beyond  trade’s  laws, 

Would  you  add  your  country’s  pain 
To  Europe’s  mountain  of  woes; 

And  fight  for  Tyranny’s  cause; 

And  join  old  England’s  foes? 

For  this  did  the  Serbs  advance 
To  win  the  war  plowed  field; 

Or  stricken  Poland  yield 

Her  towns  to  the  Teuton  twice; 

Or  the  beautiful  Land  of  France 
To  the  trenches  her  heroes  speeds; — 
That  ye  might  gain  your  price? 

For  this  did  Belgium  bleed? 

England,  Liberty’s  peer, 

Would  you  be  false  to  her? 

Gains’t  her  now  would  you  stir 
Who  fights  your  battles  today? 

For  all  you  hold  most  dear 
Her  brave  battalions  go 
Into  the  thick  of  the  fray 
To  combat  a bestial  foe. 

Would  you  allow  her  to  fall 
Under  the  Tyrant's  guns, 

She  who  gave  to  your  sons 
Liberty  ere  you  were  born? 

Bountiful  mother  of  all 

The  prosperous  ways  of  peace, 

Help  her  fight  on  till  the  morn 
When  the  night  of  horror  shall  cease! 

England,  England  my  own! 

For  you  and  your  bleeding  friends, 
Justice  finally  sends 
Tidings  of  victory  sure. 

On  the  vernal  winds  they  are  blown 
Forth  to  the  battle  for  you; 

And  Freedom  still  shall  endure; 

And  God  to  your  cause  is  true. 

Henry  Harmon  Chamberlin. 


266 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


THE  LADS  OF  THE  RED  CROSS. 

(By  D.  Bruce,  Red  Cross,  Rouen.) 

Cam  ye  thro’  Normandie,  lad  wi’  the  philabeg, 

Doon  by  Rouen  and  the  banks  o’  the  Cailly, 

Saw  ye  the  cars  wi’  the  thistle  and  red  cockade, 

Saw  ye  oor  lads  as  they  whizzed  proodly  by  ye? 

Bravely  they  left  their  loved  country  behind  them, 
Their  wives  and  their  lasses  lamenting  them  sairly; 
Noo  in  the  midst  of  the  war  ye  will  find  them, 

Lending  a helping  hand  baith  late  and  early. 

Clad  in  their  khaki  and  marchin’  round  Rouen, 

The  hearts  of  the  French  maids  they’ve  captured  right 
fairly; 

Cheering  their  way  wi’  the  lilt  o’a  Scottish  sang, 
Answerin’  to  duty’s  call  blithely  and  rarely. 

Here’s  to  the  lads  wi’  the  Red  Cross  upon  their  caps, 
May  danger  aye  spare  them  and  fortune  befriend  them, 
Proodly  we’ll  watch  the  career  of  the  gallant  chaps, 
Ever  we’ll  pray  that  success  may  attend  them. 

THE  OLD  ISSUE. 

By  Rudyard  Kipling  in  “Boston  Herald.” 

All  we  have  of  freedom — all  we  use  or  know — 

This  our  fathers  bought  for  us,  long  and  long  ago; 

Ancient  Right  unnoticed  as  the  breath  we  draw — 
Leave  to  live  by  no  man’s  leave,  underneath  the  Law. 

Lance  and  torch  and  tumult,  steel  and  grey-goose  wing, 
Wrenched  it,  inch  and  ell  and  all,  slowly  from  the  King. 

So  they  bought  us  Freedom- — not  a little  cost — 
Wherefore  must  we  watch  the  King,  lest  our  gain  be  lost. 

Give  no  heed  to  bondsmen,  making  war  with  peace. 
Suffer  not  the  old  King  here  or  overseas! 

Howso’  great  their  clamor,  whatso’er  their  claim, 
Suffer  not  the  old  King  under  any  name! 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


267 


Hate  and  all  division;  hosts  of  hurrying  spies; 

Money  poured  in  secret,  carrion  breeding  flies: 

Cruel  in  the  shadow,  crafty  in  the  sun, 

Far  beyond  his  borders  shall  his  teaching  run: 

Sloven,  sullen,  savage,  secret,  uncontrolled — 

Laying  on  a new  land  evil  of  the  old. 

Here  is  naught  unproven,  here  is  nothing  hid; 

Step  for  step  and  word  for  word— so  the  old  Kings  did! 

Step  by  step  and  word  by  word:  who  is  ruled  may  read. 
Suffer  not  the  old  Kings — for  we  know  the  breed — 

All  the  right  they  promise — all  the  wrong  they  bring. 
Stewards  of  the  Judgment,  suffer  not  this  King! 


INTERCESSORY. 

(Tune — “ Melcombe.  ”) 

Lord  God  of  Hosts!  who  gave  these  isles 
To  be  at  peace  with  nature’s  smiles, 

So  long  to  dwell  in  Liberty 
That  we  forget  our  strength  in  Thee; 
But  now  Thou  leav’st  us  not  untried, 
But  doth  us  test,  lest  foolish  pride 
Should  overwhelm  us  and  destroy 
The  giver  in  the  gift  of  joy. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts!  our  Father’s  God! 
Help  us  to  bear  Thy  chastening  rod, 
Our  fathers  builded  in  Thy  fear 
Their  heritage  to  us  is  dear; 

We  can  but  battle  for  the  Right, 

Help  us  with  faith  like  theirs  to  fight. 
Like  them  in  faith,  likewise  to  pray; 
Turn  Thou  this  darkness  into  day! 

Lord  of  the  Nations  and  of  Life! 

Men  die  in  thousands  in  their  strife. 
And  Christ,  too,  died  for  all,  for  each — 
How  slowly  to  Thy  thoughts  we  reach; 


268 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Look  down  in  mercy  on  the  plains 
Of  death  and  suffering,  loose  the  chains 
That  bind  men’s  souls  in  sin  and  shame, 

And  bind  them  to  the  Father’s  Name. 

Lord  God  of  Peace!  let  honor  be 
Still  found  with  those  that  honor  Thee. 

Give  Thou  the  conquest  to  the  just, 

The  crown  of  pride  cast  in  the  dust; 

Thou  callest  us  to  sow  in  tears, 

Oh!  give  the  harvest  of  the  years — 

The  glory  of  the  world’s  increase 
Thy  reign  and  kingdom,  Prince  of  Peace. 
Barnard  George  Hoare,  in  “ Inverness  Courier.  ” 


MEN  OF  ENGLAND. 

By  Thomas  Campbell. 

Men  of  England!  who  inherit 

Rights  that  cost  your  sires  their  blood; 

Men  whose  undegenerate  spirit 

Has  been  proved  on  field  and  flood: — 

By  the  foes  you’ve  fought  uncounted. 

By  the  glorious  deeds  ye’ve  done, 

Trophies  captured — breaches  mounted, 
Navies  conquered — kingdoms  won. 

Yet,  remember,  England  gathers 
Hence  but  fruitless  wreaths  of  fame, 

If  the  freedom  of  your  fathers 

Glow  not  in  your  hearts  the  same. 

What  are  monuments  of  bravery, 

Where  no  public  virtues  bloom? 

What  avails  in  land  of  slavery, 

Trophied  temples,  arch,  and  tomb? 

Pageants! — Let  the  world  revere  us 
For  our  people’s  rights  and  laws, 

And  the  breasts  of  civic  heroes 
Bared  in  Freedom’s  holy  cause. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


269 


Your’s  are  Hampden’s,  Russell’s  glory, 
Sidney’s  matchless  shade  is  yours — 
Martyrs  in  heroic  story, 

Worth  a hundred  Agincourts! 

We’re  the  sons  of  sires  that  baffled 
Crowned  and  mitred  tyranny; — 
They  defied  the  field  and  scaffold 
For  their  birthrights — so  will  we! 


GOD  DEFEND  THE  RIGHT 

England!  where  the  sacred  flame 
Burns  before  the  inmost  shrine, 
Where  the  lips  that  love  thy  name 
Consecrate  their  hopes  and  thine, 
Where  the  banners  of  thy  dead 
Weave  their  shadows  overhead: 
Watch  beside  thine  arms  tonight, 

Pray  that  God  defend  the  right. 

Single-hearted,  unafraid, 

Hither  all  thy  heroes  came 
On  this  altar’s  steps  were  laid 
Gordon’s  life  and  Outram’s  fame. 
England!  if  thy  will  be  yet 
By  their  great  example  set, 

Here  beside  thine  arms  tonight 
Pray  that  God  defend  the  right. 

So  shalt  thou  when  morning  comes 
Rise  to  conquer  or  to  fall, 

Joyful  hear  the  rolling  drums, 

Joyful  hear  the  trumpets  call, 

Then  let  memory  tell  thy  heart; 

“England!  what  thou  wert,  thou  art! 
Gird  thee  with  thine  ancient  might, 
Forth!  and  God  defend  the  right!” 

— “Sunday  Companion.” 


270 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


READY  FOR  THE  SACRIFICE. 

Written  by  a Gunner,  on  his  warship  on  the  North  Sea. 

It  is  not  fear  that  brings  us  tears — our  bodies,  what  are 
they? 

They’re  God’s;  for  he  created  man,  and  gave  him  power 
to  pray. 

That  Britishers  have  consciences  has  in  the  past  been 
shown; 

This  not  themselves  they  think  of  first. 

But  those  they  leave  at  home. 

And  now  at  last  the  time  has  come,  we  go  to  meet  the 
foe, 

And  every  man  will  do  his  best  to  try  and  lay  him  low. 

But  should  it  hap  we  don’t  return  to  a quiet  and  peace- 
ful life, 

We  died — God  willing  us  to  know  that  England’s  free 
from  strife. 


THE  ADMIRAL’S  GHOST. 

From  a poem  of  the  above  title  by  Alfred  Noyes  in 
“Boston  Post.” 

Those  who  have  read  Sir  Henry  Newbolt’s.  roem,  “Drake’s  Drum”  will  be 
struck  by  the  similarity  in  seniiment  and  spirit  with  the  stanzas  that  here 
follow.  Mr.  Noyes’s  poem  is  based  on  the  idea  of  an  old  British  seaman  ex- 
pounding his  theory  that  Lord  Nelson  was  only  the  spirit  of  Sir  Francis  Drake 
returned  to  protect  his  native  land  on  the  seas,  when  his  drum  was  sounded 
in  Devon.  The  old  seaman  goes  on  to  say: 

“The  waves  were  lapping  and  slapping 
The  same  as  they  are  today; 

And  Drake  lay  dying  aboard  his  ship 
In  Nornbre  Dios  Bay. 

“The  scent  of  the  foreign  flowers 
Came  floating  all  around; 

‘But  I’d  give  my  soul  for  the  smell  o’  the  pitch,’ 

Says  he,  ‘in  Plymouth  Sound.’ 

“‘What  shall  I do,’  he  says, 

‘When  the  guns  begin  to  roar, 

An’  England  wants  me,  and  me  not  there 
To  shatter  ’er  foes  once  more?” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


271 


“ (You’ve  heard  what  he  said,  may  be, 

But  I’ll  mark  you  the  p’ints  again; 

For  I want  you  to  box  your  compass  right 
And  get  my  story  plain.) 

“‘You  must  take  my  drum,’  he  says, 

“To  the  old  sea  wall  at  home; 

And  if  you  ever  strike  that  drum,’  he  says, 
‘Why,  strike  me  blind,  I’ll  come! 

“‘If  England  needs  me,  dead 
Or  living,  I’ll  rise  that  day! 

I’ll  rise  from  the  darkness  under  the  sea 
Ten  thousand  miles  away.’ 

“‘They  lowered  him  down  in  the  deep, 

And  there  in  the  sunset-light 

They  boomed  a broadside  over  his  grave, 

As  meanin’  to  say  ‘ Good-night.  ’ 

“They  sailed  away  in  the  dark 
To  the  dear  little  isle  they  knew; 

And  they  hung  his  drum  by  the  old  sea  wall, 
The  same  as  he  told  them  to. 

“Two  hundred  years  went  by, 

And  the  guns  began  to  roar, 

And  England  was  fighting  hard  for  her  life, 
As  ever  she  fought  of  yore. 

“The  foe  was  creepin’  close, 

In  the  dark,  to  our  white-cliffed  isle; 

They  were  ready  to  leap  at  England’s  throat, 
When — 0,  you  may  smile,  you  may  smile; 

“But  ask — of  the  Devonshire  men; 

For  they  heard  in  the  dead  of  night 

The  roll  of  a drum,  and  they  saw  him  pass 
On  a ship  all  shining  white. 

“He  stretched  out  his  dead  cold  face, 

And  he  sailed  in  the  grand  old  way! 

The  fishes  had  taken  an  eye  and  an  arm, 
But  he  swept  Trafalgar’s  Bay. 


272 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


“Nelson — was  Francis  Drake! 

O,  what  matters  the  uniform, 

Or  the  patch  on  your  eye  or  your  pinned-up-sleeve, 
If  your  soul’s  like  a North  Sea  storm?” 


THE  INDIAN  ARMY. 

By  R.  E.  Vernede  in  “London  Times.” 

Into  the  West  they  are  marching!  This  is  their  longed- 
for  day 

When  that  which  England  gave  them  they  may  at  last 
repay; 

When  for  the  faith  she  dealt  them,  peasants  and  priests 
and  lords, 

When  for  the  love  they  bear  her,  they  shall  unsheathe 
their  swords! 

Men  of  the  plains  and  hill-men,  men  born  to  warrior 
roles, 

Tall  men  of  matchless  ardor,  small  men  with  mighty 
souls, 

Rulers  alike  and  subjects:  splendid  the  roll-call  rings: 

Rajahs  and  Maharajahs,  Kings  and  the  sons  of  Kings, 

Bikanir,  Patiala,  Ratlam  and  Kishangarh, 

Jodhpur,  who  rides  the  leopard  down,  Sachin  and 
Cooch-Behar, 

From  lands  where  skies  are  molten,  and  suns  strike 
down  and  parch, 

Out  of  the  East  they’re  marching,  into  the  West  they 
march. 

Oh  little  nimble  Gurkhas,  who’ve  won  a hundred  fights, 

Oh  Sikhs — the  Sikhs  who  failed  not  upon  the  Dargai 
heights, 

Rajputs,  against  whose  valor  once  in  a younger  world, 

Ruthless,  unceasing,  vainly,  the  Mogul’s  hosts  were 
hurled. 

Grey  are  our  Western  daybreaks  and  grey  our  Wes- 
tern skies 

And  very  cold  the  night-watch  unbroke  by  jackals’ 
cries ; 

Hard,  too,  will  be  the  waiting- — you  do  not  love  to  wait? 

Aye,  but  the  charge  with  bayonets — they’ll  sound  it 
soon  or  late ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


273 


And  when  that  charge  is  sounded,  who’ll  heed  grey 
skies  and  cold? 

Not  you,  Sikhs,  Rajputs,  Gurkhas,  if  to  one  thought 
you  hold, 

If  as  you  cross  the  open,  if  as  the  foe  you  near, 

If  as  you  leap  the  trenches,  this  thought  is  very  clear: 

These  foes,  they  are  not  Sahibs:  they  break  the  word 
they  plight. 

On  babes  their  blades  are  whetted,  dead  women  know 
their  might, 

Their  Princes  are  as  sweepers  whom  none  may  touch 
or  trust, 

Their  gods  they  have  forgotten;  their  honor  trails  the 
dust; 

All  that  they  had  of  izzat  is  trodden  under  heel — 

Into  their  hearts,  my  brothers,  drive  home,  drive  home 
the  steel. 


SONS  OF  ENGLAND!  SONS  OF  FRANCE. 

(An  appeal  to  Canadian  patriotism.) 

The  poem  that  won  commendation  from  the  Duke  of  Connaught. 

Sons  of  England!  Sons  of  France! 

We  whom  God’s  intent  or  chance 
Guided  into  these  verdant  parts, 

Hast  also  wound  about  our  hearts 
Ties  of  friendship,  ties  of  love 
That  none  may  rend  save  him  above, 

By  whose  good  grace,  peace  and  good  will 
Are  gifts  of  man’s  estate,  until 
Mankind  himself  shall  o’er  his  head 
Bring  ruin,  war  and  waste  instead. 

The  “Day”  has  come!  and  with  the  dawn 
Alas!  the  gift  of  peace  is  gone. 

A stranger  from  a foreign  shore 
Makes  bold  to  step  within  our  door, 
With  sword  in  hand  and  gain  in  view. 
Brothers  of  mine,  what  shall  we  do? 

Say!  shall  we  watch  his  greedy  hands 
Invade  our  loved  and  native  lands? 

Or  will  you  stretch  your  hands  with  me 
In  union’s  strength  across  the  sea? 


274 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


We  are  sons  of  allied  mothers; 

Let  us  then  arise,  my  brothers! 

To  the  cause  of  truth  and  right 
Let  us  rise  in  all  our  might! 

Let  us  swiftly  up!  Awaken! 

Who  shall  see  his  sire  forsaken? 

Onward!  let  our  kinsmen  see  us! 

Onward!  let  the  foemen  flee  us! 

Let  us  rally!  On!  Advance! 

Sons  of  England!  Sons  of  France! 

—Francis  LeRoy,  in  Boston  Globe. 

WAR  CABLES. 

What  news  from  far?  What  news  of  war? 

Tick  it  out!  Tick  it  out! 

All  the  world  is  waiting  for 
The  cable’s  distant  shout, 

Russia,  France  and  Germany 
Are  poised  above  the  throbbing  key. 

Tick  it  out  from  far  away. 

The  world’s  at  war  today! 

0 picture  us  the  lightning-flash 

Of  great  siege  guns  and  swivel  guns 
And  splendid,  whirlwind  charge  and  dash 
Of  mad  battalions. 

O waft  to  us  the  rhythmic  beat 
Of  many  millions  marching  feet. 

Great  cables,  tell  us  from  afar 
The  mighty  tale  of  war! 

And  let  us  hear  the  throbbing  drums 
And  shrilling  fife  above  the  strife. 

Around  the  world  the  music  hums. 

The  cables  give  it  life. 

They  paint  for  us  the  brave  romance 
Of  ragged  Russia,  flashing  France, 

And  stalwart-fighting  Germany, 

Tick  on,  across  the  sea! 

But  when  the  mighty  war  is  done, 

0,  send  it  out!  Send  it  out! 

Lift  the  cry  from  sun  to  sun 
And  leave  us  not  in  doubt. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


275 


When  the  last  field’s  lost  and  won 
And  silenced  every  dreadful  gun, 

Then  flash  it,  crash  it  round  the  world, 
“The  battle-flags  are  furled!” 

— Odell  Shepard  in  the  “Boston  Transcript.” 


THE  MERCILESS  HUN. 


In  addition  to  denuding  Belgium  of  food,  the  Germans  have  now  imposed 
fresh  levies. 

In  humbleness  she  tilled  her  soil, 

And  spun  her  clothes,  and  reaped  her  fields, 

And  won  the  store  of  corn  and  oil 
That  patient  labor  yields. 

She  lived  her  life  in  quiet  ways, 

A friend  to  all,  offending  none, 

And  only  asked  to  spend  her  days 
In  peace  beneath  the  sun. 

She  loved  her  land  and  liberty, 

And  kept  her  rule  with  courage  rare, 

Resolved  her  hearth  should  never  see 
A base  intruder  there. 

But  she  was  weak,  her  power  was  small, 

The  robber  came  with  shot  and  shell, 

Struck  down  her  sons,  and  stole  her  all, 

And  made  her  home  a hell. 

He  stripped  her  fields  with  wolfish  greed, 

He  filched  her  gold  with  fingers  red, 

And  mocking  now  her  anguished  need 
Denies  her  even  bread. 

He  gloats  to  starve  her,  gloats  to  rob, 

“More  gold!”  he  growls  with  menace  grim. 

The  infant’s  cry,  the  woman’s  sob 
Stir  no  remorse  in  him. 

And  mourning  o’er  her  children  slain. 

’Neath  famine’s  grip,  oppressed  by  wrong, 

She  moans  in  her  unending  pain, 

“How  long,  O Lord,  how  long?” 


276 


SONGS  OP  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Though  Justice  with  her  sword  of  might 
Delays,  her  victory  will  be  won, 

And  when  she  comes  with  sword  to  smite, 
No  mercy  for  the  Hun! 

Democritus. 


SINEWS  OF  WAR. 

It  is  not  Brown’s  to  shoulder  pack  and  rifle 
And  scorn  the  risk  of  being  caught  or  killed; 

To  tell  the  truth,  he’s  more  than  just  a trifle 
Too  ripe  in  years  and  ponderous  of  build 
To  shine  in  martial  movements  at  the  front, 

Yet  regally  he  shares  the  battle’s  brunt. 

What  stuff  composes  him,  what  brawn  and  gristle! 

What  quenchless  patriotism  fills  his  breast 
Who  nightly  buys,  within  the  “Pig  and  Whistle,” 
Plis  wonted  brace  of  quart-pots  of  the  best, 

And  quaffs  the  nut-brown  stingo,  furthermore, 

In  half  the  time  allowed  to  him  of  yore! 

His  old  “besetting  sin”  become  a virtue, 

With  tankard  proudly  raised,  a jest  he  cracks: 
“Hail,  Chancellor,  let  nothing  disconcert  you! 

While  yet  I live  to  pay  your  noble  tax, 

I pledge  you,  sir,  and  all  good  loyal  folk, 

That  Britain  never  shall,  at  least,  be  broke!” 

Gilbert  H.  Collins,  in  “London  Opinion.” 


TIPPERARY  IN  BRAID  SCOTCH. 

“It’s  a Lang,  Lang  Way  tae  Auchtermuchty. ” 

(This  parody  is  by  the  Rev.  W.  Parton  Shin  ton,  of  Gravesend  and  will  no 
doubt  be  much  appreciated  by  the  “kilted  laddies’'  at,  the  front,  as  well  as  by 
all  the  Scottish  soldiers  who  are  so  splendidly  upholding  the  ancient  renown 
of  their  regiments  in  the  firing-line.  “London  Tidbits.) 

Up  tae  feckless  London  came  a Hielan’man  lang  syne; 
As  the  Southrons  were  a wee  bit  saft  he  prospered  fine; 
Kept  awa’  frae  Piccadilly,  Strand,  an’  Leicester  Square; 
Stickit  tae  his  wee  bit  chairge,  forbye  his  hert  was  sair. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


277 


Chorus  : 

It’s  a lang  way  tae  Auchtermuchty, 

It’s  a lang  way  tae  Perth, 

It’s  a lang  way  tae  get  tae  anywhere 
Frae  anywhere  else  on  airth. 

Guidbye  tae  Ballachulish, 

Farewell  but  an’  ben; 

It’s  a lang,  lang  way  tae  Auchtermuchty, 

But  I’ll  gang  back  again. 

Sandy  sent  a wee  bit  screed  tae  tell  the  lass  he  lo’ed 
“O’  the  kiltie  laddies  a’  the  Empire’s  michty  prood. 

If  my  letter  should  be  longer,  Kirsty,  dear,”  said  he, 
“Remember  that  I’m  somewhere  wi’  my  rifle  on  my 
knee.” 

Kirsty  wrote  an  answer  maist  becomin’  in  a lass, 
Sayin,  “Censors  ken  nae  Gaelic,  sae  they’ll  let  it  pass. 
Stay  and  finish  fechtin’  for  auld  bonnie  Scotland’s  fame, 
I’ll  never  marry  ye  until  the  Belgians  get  back  hame.  ” 

THE  NEW  “INTERNATIONAL  RAG.” 

0 ! say  can  you  see  by  the  dawn’s  early  light 
Any  trace  of  a ship  of  the  dreaded  invader? 

If  so,  don’t  despair;  we  shall  still  be  all  right; 

We’ll  run  up  Old  Glory  and  thus  can  evade  her. 
Union  Jack!  we’re  still  true  to  our  country  and  you, 
But  a better  arrangement  of  red,  white  and  blue, 
Called  the  Star  Spangled  Banner,  is  needed  to  save 
The  ships  of  Britannia,  while  ruling  the  wave. 

Homo  in  “Boston  Globe.” 

THE  GLORIOUS  DAY. 

From  the  “Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 

Gray  dawn,  and  the  boom  of  a fortress  gun; 

A cry  of  death,  and  the  fight’s  begun. 

The  grass  is  wet  with  the  night  dew  yet; 

It  will  drown  in  blood  ere  the  sun  has  set. 

The  killers  start  up  from  their  beds  in  the  clay, 

Their  faces  as  gray  as  the  new  born  day. 

Just  a moment  they  shrink,  for  the  morn  is  chill, 

But  their  hearts  leap  quick,  and  their  pulses  thrill 


278  SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


As  they  lunge  to  their  work,  and  they  kill  with  a will, 
And  they  kill  and  they  kill  and  they  kill  and  they  kill — 
For  the  fight  is  on. 

High  noon,  and  the  din  of  a thousand  tones; 

Curses  and  shrieks  and  sobs  and  moans; 

Clashing  of  steel  and  the  rattle  of  guns, 

And  the  drip,  drip,  drip,  where  the  red  blood  runs. 
Stench  on  the  air,  and  the  vultures  come; 

The  starved  dogs  wait  and  the  green  flies  hum. 

Death  in  a hundred  shapes,  death  everywhere, 

On  plain  and  on  hill,  in  the  mine,  in  the  air! 

And  the  killers  toil  on,  and  they  kill  with  a will, 

And  they  kill  and  they  kill  and  they  kill  and  they  kill — 
For  the  fight  goes  on! 

Black  night,  and  the  killers  lie  down  from  their  toil, 
Throw  their  blood-stained  arms  on  the  blood-soaked 
soil; 

And  they  sleep  and  they  dream  of  their  unfinished  work, 
While  the  starved  dogs  gorge  in  the  gloom  and  the  murk 
And  the  chief  of  the  killers  walks  forth  on  the  plain, 
Where  he  stumbles  and  falls  on  the  forms  of  the  slain. 
And  his  tin  medals  rattle,  and  baubles  he’s  won, 

And  he  curses  the  dead,  but  he  mutters,  “Well  done! 
’Twas  a glorious  day,  but  there’s  work  to  do  still, 

And  we’ll  kill,  and  we’ll  kill  and  we’ll  kill  and  we’ll  kill 
Till  the  last  fight’s  won!” 

PAPA  NEGLECTED. 

If  you  are  getting  tired  of  singing  “Sister  Susie,” 
why  not  change  over  to  this  latest  English  ditty  ? 

Mother’s  sitting  knitting  little  mittens  for  the  Navy, 
Bertha’s  busy  bathing  baby  Belgian  refugees, 

Sarah’s  shaming  shirkers  making  guernseys  for  the 
Ghurkas, 

O what  busy  bees,  all  sewing,  0 so  busy, 

Maggie,  Moll  and  Maud  are  making  mufflers  for  the 
Marines, 

While  Winnie  winds  the  wool  when  they  begin, 

Sister  Cissie’s  knitting  socks  and  Susie’s  sewing  shirts 
for  soldiers, 

Still  poor  Papa  props  his  pants  up  with  a pin. 

“Boston  Globe.” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


279 


AMERICA. 

My  country,  ’tis  of  thee, 

Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

Of  thee  I sing; 

Land  where  my  fathers  died, 

Land  of  the  Pilgrims’  pride, 

From  every  mountain  side 
Let  freedom  ring. 

My  native  country  thee 
Land  of  the  noble  free 

Thy  name  I love; 

I love  thy  rocks  and  rills 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills; 

My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 
Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 

And  ring  from  all  the  trees 

Sweet  Freedom’s  song; 

Let  mortal  tongues  awake, 

Let  all  that  breathe  partake, 

Let  rocks  their  silence  break, 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  father’s  God  to  Thee, 

Author  of  Liberty, 

To  Thee  we  sing; 

Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  Freedom’s  holy  light, 

Protect  us  by  Thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King. 

STAR=SP  ANGLED  BANNER. 

Oh!  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn’s  early  light, 

What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight’s  last  gleam- 
ing, 

Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars  through  the  per- 
ilous fight, 

O’er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were  so  gallantly  stream- 
ing? 

And  the  rockets  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  ah', 
Gave  proof  thro’  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there. 


280 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Chorus: 

Oh!  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O’er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

On  the  shore  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe’s  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o’er  the  towering  steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  half  conceals,  half  discloses? 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning’s  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream: 
Chorus: 

’Tis  the  star-spangled  banner;  oh,  long  may  it  wave 
O’er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 
That  the  havoc  and  the  battle’s  confusion 
A home  and  a country  should  leave  us  no  more? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footstep’s  pollu- 
tion. 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave. 

From  the  terror  of  flight  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave: 
Chorus: 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O’er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave! 

Oh!  thus  be  it  ever  when  freemen  shall  stand 
Between  their  loved  homes  and  wild  war’s  desolation; 
Blest  with  vict’ry  and  peace,  may  the  heav’n  rescued 
land, 

Braise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a 
Nation! 

Then  conquer  we  must  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 

And  this  be  our  motto:  “In  God  is  our  trust!” 

Chorus: 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O’er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave! 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


281 


National  Songs  of  tlie  Allies 


GOD  SAVE  THE  KING. 

God  save  our  gracious  King, 
Long  live  our  noble  King, 
God  save  the  King! 
Send  him  victorious, 

Happy  and  glorious, 

Long  to  reign  over  us — 

God  save  the  King! 

0 Lord  our  God,  arise, 
Scatter  his  enemies, 

And  make  them  fall. 
Confound  then'  politics, 
Frustrate  their  knavish  tricks; 
On  Thee  our  hopes  we  fix — 
God  save  us  all!. 

Thy  choicest  gifts  in  store 
On  him  be  pleased  to  pour — 
Long  may  he  reign. 
May  he  defend  our  laws, 

And  ever  give  us  cause 
To  sing  with  heart  and  voice 
God  save  the  Kang! 


282 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


RULE  BRITANNIA. 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heav’n’s  command, 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 

Arose,  arose,  arose,  from  out  the  azure  main, 

This  was  the  charter,  the  charter  of  the  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sang  the  strain. 

Chorus  : 

Rule  Britannia!  Britannia  rules  the  waves, 

Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee, 

Must  in  their  turn,  must  in  their  turn  to  tyrants  fall, 
While  thou  shalt  flourish,  shall  flourish  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 

The  muses,  still  with  freedom  found 
Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast,  thy  happy  coast  repair, 

Blest  Isle,  with  beauty,  with  matchless  beauty  crowned, 
And  manly  heart  to  guard  the  fair. 


THE  LAND  OF  MY  FATHERS. 

(Welsh  National  Anthem) 

The  Land  of  my  Fathers,  the  land  of  my  choice, 
The  land  in  which  minstrels  and  poets  rejoice; 
The  land  whose  stern  warriors  were  true  to  the  core, 
While  fighting  for  freedom  of  yore. 

O Land  of  my  Fathers,  the  home  of  the  free, 

The  land  of  the  “telyn”  so  soothing  to  me; 

Thy  noble  defenders  were  gallant  and  brave, 

For  freedom  their  heart’s  life  they  gave. 

Chorus  : 

Wales!  Wales!  My  mother’s  sweet  home  is  in  Wales: 
’Till  death  be  passed,  my  love  shall  last, 

My  longing,  my  “hiraeth”  for  Wales. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


283 


THE  BELGIAN  NATIONAL  ANTHEM, 
LA  BRABANCONNE. 


It  wa3  during  the  defence  of  Brussels  against  the  royal  troops  that  the  Bel- 
gian National  Anthem  came  into  being.  Its  author  was  Hippolyte  Louis 
Alexander  Dechet,  actor  and  poet,  better  known  under  his  stage  name  of 
Jenneval.  He  had  been  a member  of  the  company  of  the  Theatre  de  la  Monnaie 
at  Brussels,  but  when  the  citizens  of  the  Belgian  capital  began  to  strike  for 
independence  he  threw  in  his  lot  with  them,  and  in  the  intervals  of  fighting 
wrote  the  verses  which  have  become  the  Belgian  National  Anthem.  On  Oc- 
tober 19  he  was  killed  at  Lierre  during  an  affair  of  outposts  on  the  river  Rupel, 
and  thus  gave  his  life  for  the  country  of  his  adoption.  The  words  now  com- 
monly sung  are  not  those  of  Jenneval,  but  the  version  of  M.  Charles  Rogier, 
the  eminent  Belgian  statesman,  who  played  a prominent  part  in  establishing 
the  first  Belgian  national  government. 

Away  with  bondage,  long  enthralling! 

0 Belgium,  awake  and  arise! 

Now,  at  the  voice  of  honor  calling, 

Aloft  thy  banner  bravely  flies. 

Once  again,  in  thy  pride  and  glory, 

Nation  unconquered,  ever  free, 

On  thy  standard  blazon  the  story 
Of  King  and  Law  and  Liberty! 

Again,  with  courage  still  undying, 

Fight  on  till  the  conflict  is  done; 

God  is  thy  shield,  on  Him  relying 
The  victory  is  surely  won. 

Rich  reward  shall  thy  labor  render, 

Fruitful  thy  fields  shall  ever  be, 

Till  we  crown  in  peace  and  splendor 
Our  King  and  Law  and  Liberty! 

To  all  our  friends  of  days  departed 
A welcome  we  warmly  accord; 

Belgians,  Batavians,  true-hearted, 

In  brotherhood  shall  sheathe  the  sword. 

Nought  again  shall  our  friendship  sever, 
Steadfast  in  unity  are  we, 

While  we  hold  as  watchword  for  ever 
“For  King  and  Law  and  Liberty!” 

Again,  O Belgium,  still  our  mother, 

We  pledge  thee  in  blood  and  in  song; 

Surely  to  thee  and  to  no  other 

Our  swords,  our  hearts,  our  lives  belong! 

While  thy  deeds  live  in  history’s  pages 
Deathless  thy  fame  shall  ever  be, 

And  the  cry  still  ring  through  the  ages, 

“For  King  and  Law  and  Liberty!” 


284 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


THE  MARSELLAISE 

Arise  to  arms,  ye  gallant  sons  of  France, 

The  day  of  glory  draweth  nigh! 

Lo!  the  crimson  banner  of  tyranny, 

‘Gainst  us  dare  they  set  up  on  high? 

'Gainst  us  dare  they  set  up  on  high? 

Do  ye  not  hear,  soldiers,  the  summons — 
The  roar  of  the  battle  arise? 

They  come  to  strike  before  your  eyes 
Those  you  love,  your  sons  and  dear  ones. 

To  arms,  then,  comrades  brave! 

Our  land  renown’d  to  save, 

March  on!  March  on!  Spare  not  the  foe; 

To  victory  we  go. 

What  will  these  hordes  of  slaves,  these  traitors, 
In  forging  chains  us  to  destroy? 

Why  prepare  they  plots  so  unworthy? 

Why  conspire  kings  us  to  defy? 

Why  conspire  kings  us  to  defy? 

Is  it  for  us,  Frenchmen,  his  outrage? 

What  transports  of  scorn  and  of  ire 
Shall  burst  in  words  and  deeds  of  fire! 

Dare  they  meditate  all  this  carnage? 

To  arms,  then  comrades  brave! 

Our  land  renown’d  to  save, 

March  on!  March  on!  Spare  not  the  foe; 

To  victory  we  go. 

Let  love  of  country  animate  our  hosts, 

Our  arms  sustain,  guide  us  aright! 

Blessed  Liberty,  fight  thou  with  us — 

Thy  defenders  we  in  thy  might, 

Thy  defenders  we  in  thy  might; 

At  thy  behest  vict’ry  shall  follow 
That  glorious  standard  we  boast, 

And  then  the  bold  invading  host 
Shall  behold  our  triumph  in  sorrow. 

To  arms,  then,  comrades  brave! 

Our  land  renown’d  to  save 

March  on!  March  on!  Spare  not  the  foe: 

To  victory  we  go. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


285 


RUSSIAN  NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

Lord  God,  we  pray  to  Thee, 

Guard  our  great  Czar! 

May  he  his  nation  guide, 

Bright  be  his  star! 

May  all  his  people  live 

In  happiness  and  peace, 

To  always  praise  Thy  holy  Name, 
And  never  cease. 

And  should  dread  war  arise, 

Stretch  forth  Thy  Hand, 

To  guard  from  wicked  foes 
Our  dear,  dear  land. 

But  all  our  hope  shall  be, 

That  sweet  peace  may  reign, 
And  we  may  ever  praise  Thy  Great 
And  Holy  Name. 


JAPANESE  NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

Monarch  of  the  Eastern  Wave, 
Mighty  Empire,  great  to  save, 

Hail  Japan!  Hail  Japan! 

Yielding  not  to  any  man! 

Right  is  Might!  Fight  for  Right! 
Hail,  Japan! 

Draw  the  sword  from  out  che  sheath, 
Ne’er  shall  nations  say  we  sleep! 

Strike  the  blow,  e’er  the  foe 
Steals  from  us  the  laurel  wreath! 
Right  is  Might!  Fight  for  Right! 
Hail,  Japan! 

God  of  valor,  God  of  war, 

Let  our  arms  for  evermore 
Vanquish  foes — ever  those 
Who  oppress  the  weak  and  poor! 
Right  is  Might!  Fight  for  Right! 
Hail,  Japan! 


286 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


SERBIAN  NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

Rise,  rise  up,  ye  men  of  Serbia! 

Unsheath  the  sword  in  Honor’s  cause! 

March  in  defense  of  King  and  country, 

Ne’er  to  submit  to  enemy’s  laws. 

Rally,  rally,  duty  calls  you, 

And  the  foemen  soon  shall  flee! 

With  hearts  aglow  and  colors  flying, 

Yict’ry  soon  shall  with  us  be! 

With  hearts  aglow  and  colors  flying, 

Yict’ry  soon  shall  with  us  be! 

Serbia  will  crush  her  foes. 

“Let  no  foreign  yoke  enthrall  you!’’ 

Serbia  to  her  manhood  cries: 

Arm  and  fight!  The  Mother  calls  you! 
Triumph  and  glory  is  the  prize. 

Gather,  gather  round  the  Standard, 

Raise  the  flag  of  Liberty. 

With  sword  unsheathed  and  cannon  roaring, 
Serbia  and  Victory ! 

With  sword  unsheathed  and  cannon  roaring, 
Serbia  and  Victory! 

Serbia  will  crush  her  foes. 

Rise,  rise  up,  ye  men  of  Serbia — 

Give  defiance  to  the  foe! 

Fail  not,  fear  not,  men  of  Serbia, 

Days  of  Are,  or  nights  of  woe! 

Ever  marching  with  the  Standard, 

With  the  flag  of  Liberty! 

With  sword  unsheathed  and  cannon  roaring, 
Serbia  and  Victory! 

With  sword  unsheathed  and  cannon  roaring, 
Serbia  and  Victory! 

Serbia  will  crush  her  foes. 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


287 


WHEN  WAR  SHALL  CEASE. 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world  with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps  and  courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 

There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  nor  forts. 

The  warrior’s  name  would  be  a name  abhorred; 

And  every  nation  that  should  lift  again 

Its  hand  against  a brother,  on  its  forehead 
Would  wear  forever  the  curse  of  Cain. 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then  cease. 

And  like  a bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 

I hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say  “Peace!” 

Peace!  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  warVgreat  organ  shakes  the  skies 

But,  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 

The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 

Longfellow. 


Till  the  war  drums  throb  no  longer 

and  the  battle-flags  are  furled, 
In  the  parliament  of  man,  the  federation 
of  the  world. 


Tennyson. 


288 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


BRITISH  ARMY  REGIMENTAL  MARCHES 


The  following  is  a complete  list  of  the  regimental  marches  of 
the  British  Army.  It  was  prepared  by  Percival  Lucas  of  the 
21st  Service  Battalion,  Royal  Fusiliers,  Ashtead,  Surrey,  England, 
and  printed  in  the  London  “Observer.”  Jan.  3,  1915.  The 
Fusilier  regiments,  five  of  which  are  omitted  in  this  list,  usually 
play  “The  British  Grenadiers.” 


Royal  Artillery “The  British  Grenadiers.” 

Royal  Engineers “Wings.” 

Grenadier  Guards “The  British  Grenadiers.” 

Coldstream  Guards “Milanollo.” 

Scots  Guards “Hieland  Laddie.” 

Irish  Guards “St.  Patrick’s  Day.” 

Royal  Scots “Dumbarton’s  Drums.” 

(1.  A Portuguese  Air. 

2.  “We’ll  gang  nae  mair  to 
yon  Toun.” 

Buffs “The  Buffs.” 

Royal  Lancaster  Regt “Corn  Rigs  are  Bonnie.” 

Northumberland  Fusiliers..  .“The  British  Grenadiers.” 
Royal  Warwickshire  Regt.  ..  “Warwickshire  Lads.” 

Royal  Fusiliers “The  British  Grenadiers.” 

Liverpool  Regt “Here’s  to  the  Maiden.” 

Norfolk  Regt “Rule  Britannia.” 

Lincolnshire  Regt “The  Lincolnshire  Poacher.” 

Devonshire  Regt “We’ve  Lived  and  Loved  To- 

gether.” 

Suffolk  Regt “Speed  the  Plough.” 

Prince  Albert’s  Somerset  L.I. “Prince  Albert’s  March.” 

West  Yorkshire  Regt 

East  Yorkshire  Regt 

Bedfordshire  Regt 1.  “The  Mountain  Rose. ” 

2.  “Mandolinata.  ” 

Leicestershire  Regt “Romaika.” 

Royal  Irish  Regt “Garry  Owen.” 

Yorkshire  Regt “ The  Bonnie  English  Rose.’: 

Yorkshire  Regt “Caira.” 

Lancashire  Fusiliers 

Royal  Scots  Fusiliers 

Cheshire  Regt 

Royal  Welsh  Fusiliers “The  British  Grenadiers’ 

“Men  of  Harlech.” 

South  Wales  Borderers “Men  of  Harlech.” 


‘The  Yorkshire  Lass.” 


“Wha  wouldna 
Charlie?” 


fecht  for 


and 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


289 


Royal  Sussex  Regt.. 


King’s  Own  Scottish  Bor-  “Blue  Bonnets  over  the  Bor- 

derers der.  ” 

Cameronians “Athol  Highlanders”  and 

“Within  a Mile  o’  Edinboro 
Toon.” 

Royal  Inniskilling  Fusiliers  j 1.  “Kynegad  Slashers.” 

Gloucestershire  Regt \ 2.  “Highland  Pipers.” 

Worcestershire  Regt “Windsor.” 

East  Lancashire  Regt “Lancashire  Lads.” 

( 1.  “A  Southerly  Wind  and 

East  Surrey  Regt < a Cloudy  Sky.” 

[ 2.  “Lass  o’  Gowrie. ” 

Duke  of  Cornwall’s  L.  I — “One  and  All.” 

Duke  of  Wellington’s  West 

Riding  Re gt “Wellesley . ” 

Border  Regt “D’ye  Ken  John  Peel?” 

1 A French  Air. 

2.  “ Royal  Sussex.  ” 

1.  “Hampshire.” 

Hampshire  Regt ■{  2.  “We’ll  gang  nae  mair  to 

yon  Toun.” 

South  Staffordshire  Regt...  .“Come  Lasses  and  Lads.” 
Dorset  Regt “ Dorset.  ” 

1.  “Come  Lasses  and  Lads.” 

2.  “God  Bless  the  Prince  of 
Wales.” 

Welsh  Regt “ApShenkin.” 

Black  Watch “Hieland  Laddie.” 

Oxon  & Bucks  L.  I “Nachtlager  in  Granada.” 

Essex  Regt. “Essex.” 

Sherwood  Foresters “The  Young  May  Moon.” 

( 1.  “The  Red  Rose  ” 

North  Lancashire  Regt ■12.  “The  Lincolnshire  Poach- 

[ er.” 

Northamptonshire  Regt “Northamptonshire.” 

„ t,  f “Dashing  White  Sergeant.” 

{ Royal  Sussex. 

Royal  West  Kent  Regt “A  Hundred  Pipers.” 

Yorkshire  L.  I “Jockie  to  the  Fair.” 

Shropshire  L.  I “Old  Towler.” 

Middlesex  Regt “Lasso’  Gowrie.” 

King’s  Royal  Rifle  Corps 

(all  battalions) “ Lutzow’s  Wild  Hunt.  ” 

Wiltshire  Regt “ Wiltshire.  ” 

Manchester  Regt “ Manchester.  ” 


Prince  of  Wales’  South 
Lancashire  Regt 


290 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


North  Staffordshire  Regt.  ..“The  Days  When  We  Went 

Gipsying.” 

York  and  Lancaster  Regt.... “York  and  Lancaster.” 

Durham  L.  I “The  Light  Barque.  ” 

f 1.  “ Whistle  o’er  the  Lave  o’t." 

Highland  L.  I 4 2.  “Blue  Bonnets  over  the 

[ Border.  ” 

Seaforth  Highlanders “Blue  Bonnets  over  the  Bor- 

der.” 

Gordon  Highlanders \ “Cameron  Men”  and  “Pi- 

Cameron  Highlanders / broch  of  Donald  Dhu.” 

Royal  Irish  Rifles “‘Off,  off,’  said  the  Stranger.” 

Royal  Irish  Fusiliers \ «St.  Patrick>s  Day.» 

Connaught  Rangers J 

Argyll  and  Sutherland 

Highlanders “Hieland  Laddie”  and  “The 

Campbells  are  Coming.” 

Leinster  Regt “Royal  Canadian”  and  “Come 

Back  to  Erin.” 

Royal  Munster  Fusiliers  .... 

Royal  Dublin  Fusiliers 

Rifle  Brigade “I’m  Ninety-Five.” 

Army  Service  Corps “Wait  for  the  Wagon.” 

R.  A.  M.  C “Her  Bright  Smile  Haunts  Me 

Still.” 

R.  M.  A.  and  R.  M.  L.  I “A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave.” 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


291 


CONTENTS. 

A Trumpet  Voice  from  the  Past 10 

Dedication 11 

Our  Gift  Today 12 

British  Born  Women  and  the  War 13 

We  Give  Thanks 14 

Liege 15 

I Am  a Belgian 16 

The  Roll  of  the  War  Drums 17 

War  Song 20 

War 21 

A Hymn  of  War 21 

The  Gods  of  War 22 

War 23 

The  European  War 24 

War 25 

Edward  Grey’s  Answer 26 

The  Motives 27 

The  Day 28 

A Chant  of  Hate  Against  England 29 

A Reply 30 

To  the  German  Army 32 

The  Turning  of  the  Worm 33 

How  Liege  Held  the  Road 34 

Belgium  Held  the  Way  to  the  Battlefield 35 

When  Struck  “The  Day” 36 

To  Arms 37 

Englishwoman’s  Own  War  Song 38 

A Call  to  Arms 39 

To  the  Kaiserin . 40 

To  Arms 40 

Follow  the  Drum 41 

Britannia’s  Children 42 

Bundle  and  Go 43 

Dada’s  Don  to  da  Fyunt .44 

Fall  In! 45 

The  Yoke  of  England 46 

The  Hodden  Grey 47 

British  Marching  Song 48 

The  “Black  Squad”  in  Khaki 49 

Old  Age  Appeals  to  Youth 50 

Your  Country  Needs  You 52 

The  Auld  “Reserve” 53 


292 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


A Ballade  of  Office  Boys 54 

The  Game 55 

For  Country  and  for  King 56 

To  the  Shirker:  A Last  Appeal 57 

The  Clan  of  Gael 58 

To  the  Brave 59 

To  Britannia 60 

Canada’s  Word 62 

India  To  England 63 

England,  My  England 64 

An  Appropriate  Verse — Today 65 

Ten  Hundred  Thousand  Strong 66 

Three  Hundred  Thousand  More 67 

Our  Drill  Sergeant 68 

Caterham  Camp 69 

A United  Empire 70 

The  Children  of  the  Brave 71 

Drake’s  Drum 72 

The  Fight  for  Freedom 72 

The  Cause  of  Right 73 

“Gaze  on  Your  Sons!” 73 

To  My  Country. 74 

Auld  Scotland  Still 74 

Painting  the  Lily 75 

“Where  is  Thy  Brother?” 76 

He’d  Desert  on  the  Spot 77 

For  Freedom 78 

“Poland  and  Freedom  Again” 79 

To  the  Present-Day  Germans 80 

The  War  Lord 81 

Letter  Frae  the  Front 82 

A Hymn  to  the  Nameless 83 

A Prayer  for  Help 83 

The  Meeting 84 

Man  the  Trenches! 85 

England  in  Time  of  War 86 

The  Song  of  the  Camp 86 

Battery  L 87 

The  Call  of  the  Trenches 88 

A British  Sailor’s  Song 89 

Cavalry  Song 89 

A Cameron  Sleeps 90 

The  Ninth  Lancers 91 

The  Germans’  Retreat 91 

The  Trumpeter 92 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


293 


An  Interlude 93 

The  Colonel’s  Prater 93 

The  London  Scottish 94 

The  Searchlights 95 

The  Battle  of  the  Destroyers ^.96 

The  Prayer  of  the  Man  in  the  Trench 98 

For  Our  Seamen 99 

From  the  Trooper’s  Ditty 100 

With  the  Fleet 100 

Bivouac  Song 101 

An  Only  Son 102 

A British  Naval  Song 103 

The  Dead  Volunteer 104 

The  Battleship  Remarks 104 

The  Man  at  the  Front 105 

The  ’Appy  Thought 106 

The  Colors  of  the  Flag 107 

To  Berlin 108 

The  Conquering  Scots  Were  There 109 

The  Trench-Digger’s  Dream 109 

The  Sword’s  Fate 110 

To  the  Heroes  of  the  Northern  Sea 111 

Magnard 111 

Which 112 

The  Song  of  the  Soldier 113 

The  Zeppelin 113 

The  Camp  in  the  Sands 114 

Not  Germany 115 

The  Army  Cook’s  Complaint 116 

Scottish  Football  Heroes 117 

The  London  Scottish  at  Messines 118 

The  Invincible  Armada 119 

Playing  the  Game 120 

Two  Sonnets 120 

Poem  by  a Wounded  “Tommy”  in  Stobhill  Hospital 121 

The  Battle  Christmas 122 

The  Imperialism  of  Ideas 122 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 123 

The  Toy  Band 124 

The  Gordon  Highlanders 125 

Australians  to  the  Front 127 

Belgium’s  Glory 128 

Belgium,  1914 129 

Belgium’s  Wrongs 129 

Sonnet  on  the  Belgium  Expatriation 130 


294 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


Not  These  I Pity 130 

“The  Blind  Man  and  His  Son” 131 

Hardy  Appeals  in  Verse  for  Hungered  7,000,000 132 

Belgium  Thanks  America 132 

What  are  You  Doing  for  England? 133 

The  Widow’s  Mite 133 

A Song  for  Women 134 

Grey  Knitting 135 

The  Helpers 136 

The  Patriot 136 

On  the  Destruction  of  Rheims  Cathedral 137 

The  Chimes  of  Termonde 137 

A Vision  of  Louvain 138 

The  True  Story  of  Rheims 139 

Madonna  of  Termonde 140 

My  Normandy 140 

The  Kaiser’s  Prayer 142 

Sunset 143 

The  Price 144 

To  Germany  and  Her  Apologists-.. 144 

God  and  the  Kaiser 144 

By  Wireless  from  Berlin 146 

The  German  Saint 147 

Holy  Willie’s  Prayer 147 

Wilhelm  Again 149 

The  Kaiser’s  Dream 150 

Germany’s  Naval  “Victory” 151 

Weelum’s  “Kultur” .-..152 

A Crisis  in  Berlin. 153 

The  Calais  of  Our  Ally 154 

Song  of  the  Landwehr 154 

Hoch  Der  Kaiser ..156 

A Hint  to  the  Kaiser ..571 

L’Amende  Honorable 157 

John’s  Punishment  for  the  Kaiser 158 

Weelum’s  Strategy 159 

The  Great  “I  Am” 160 

The  Gentle  German 161 

Bloudie  Bill 162 

The  Judgment  Day v 163 

The  Kaiser — On  Tour ..164 

To  the  German  Chancellor 165 

To  the  Censor  (Uber  Alles) 167 

The  Kaiser — and  God 167 

The  Kaiser  in  Hot  Water 167 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR  295 


“Swollen  Headed  William” 167 

The  Disappointed  Uhlan 167 

Blood-Guilt 168 

Von  Kluck 169 

Austrian  War  Lament 170 

Noughts  and  Crosses 171 

Wilhelm  Uber  Alles 172 

Who  Smashed  Bill  Kaiser 173 

Rule  Britannia 174 

1915 175 

The  Soldier’s  Widow 175 

Roberts  V.  C 176 

To  Our  Fallen 176 

The  Last  Message 177 

Field  Marshall  Earl  Roberts 177 

The  City  of  Peace 178 

Bobs 179 

The  Victoria  Cross 179 

To  an  Unknown  Soldier 180 

Urgent!  From  Mr.  Atkins 181 

After  the  Battle 181 

An  English  Mother’s  Prayer— 1915 182 

Bagpipes 183 

Sat  on  a Thistle 184 

Why  Women  are  Waistless  in  War  Times 184 

A Prayer 185 

From  Ode  on  the  Death  of  Wellington 185 

From  Maud 186 

Lay  of  Sir  William  Wallace 186 

A Scotch  Lassie’s  Prayer 187 

Columbia 188 

Europe 188 

Waterloo  and  St.  Quentin 189 

To  the  Enemy,  on  His  Achievement 190 

Our  Blessed  Slain 191 

In  Time  of  Peril 192 

War  and  the  Woman 193 

St.  Andrew’s  Day 193 

Yis 194 

War  Lessons 194 

“The  Scum” 195 

Survival  of  the  Unfit 196 

Song  of  Death 197 

All  is  Well 197 

The  Real  Scot _ 198 


296 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


The  New  Year,  1915 199 

A Prayer  from  the  Line 200 

The  Farewell 200 

A Real  Scotch  Reel 201 

The  War  Budget 201 

His  Majesty’s  Stew 202 

Seventy  Billion  Dollars 203 

“Tommies”  as  Seen  by  a Frenchman 204 

Jules  Francois 204 

Przemysl. 205 

What  Shall  We  Do?... 206 

Matri  Dolorasae 206 

The  Searchlights  on  the  Mersey 207 

The  Army  of  the  Dead.. 207 

The  Vigil 208 

Soldier’s  Dream 209 

The  Married  Man 210 

To  Our  Dead 211 

The  Bride 212 

The  Drowned  Sailor 212 

Aftermath 213 

A Nation’s  Prayer 214 

To  Emile  Verhaeren. 215 

To  What  Base  Uses 215 

1915 217 

The  Swords  of  India 217 

Mothers  of  Men 218 

It’s  a Long  Way  to  Tipperary 219 

The  Ingrates 220 

Your  Dear  Old  Dad  Was  Irish 220 

The  Kilt  and  Bonnet  Blue 221 

Soldiers  of  the  Guard 222 

Before  and  After 223 

The  Auld  Flag 223 

Call  It  a Draw 225 

From  the  Front 226 

To  the  School  at  War 227 

Those  Awful  Names 227 

The  New  Neutrality 228 

A German  Reminder 229 

From  the  Neutral  Nations 229 

The  Girl  I Left  Behind  Me 230 

The  Kilties  in  Crimea 231 

Goes  a Long  Way 232 

The  Redemption  of  Europe 232 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


297 


Farewell,  Farewell  to  Canada 235 

Boys  in  Khaki,  Boys  in  Blue 236 

We  Didn’t  Want  to  Fight,  but  By  Jingo,  Now  We  Do 237 

Irishmen  Must  be  There 238 

Here’s  to  the  Day 239 

Tommy  and  Jack  will  Soon  Come  Marching  Home 240 

Motherland,  Your  Sons  Will  All  be  There 241 

For  King  and  Sireland 242 

Ireland’s  Volunteers 243 

It’s  Jist  Like  Being  at  Hame 244 

The  Bulldog’s  Bark 245 

Sons  of  Australia 246 

Sons  of  the  Sea 247 

Your  King  and  Country  Want  You 248 

Stick  to  Your  Guns 249 

Sons  of  England,  Sons  of  Wales 250 

Sister  Susie’s  Sewing  Shirts  for  Soldiers 251 

Belinda’s  Christmas  Duff 252 

Only  a Scrap  of  Paper 253 

To  Wilhelm  II 253 

The  Vague  Tribunal 254 

Birds  of  Empire 255 

Lusitania — A Reply 256 

The  Men  Behind  the  Tube 258 

The  British  Bulldog’s  Watching  at  the  Door 258 

The  Men  of  Airly 259 

America’s  Debt 260 

The  Chant  of  Love 261 

England 262 

The  Chant  of  Peace 263 

Scotland 264 

For  England 235 

The  Lads  of  the  Red  Cross 288 

The  Old  Issue 266 

Intercessory 237 

Men  of  England 268 

God  Defend  the  Right 269 

Ready  for  the  Sacrifice 270 

The  Admiral’s  Ghost 270 

The  Indian  Army 272 

Sons  of  England!  Sons  of  France 273 

War  Cables 274 

The  Merciless  Hun 275 

Sinews  of  War 276 

Tipperary  In  Braid  Scotch 276 


298 


SONGS  OF  THE  GREAT  WORLD  WAR 


New  International  Rag 277 

The  Glorious  Day 277 

Mother’s  Knitting  Mittens 278 

America 279 

Star  Spangled  Banner 279 

God  Save  the  King... 281 

Rule  Britannia 282 

The  Land  of  My  Fathers  (Welsh) 282 

La  Brabanconne  (Belgian) 283 

The  Marseillaise 284 

Russian  National  Anthem 285 

Japanese  National  Anthem 285 

Serbian  National  Anthem 286 

When  War  Shall  Cease 287 

Marching  Tunes  of  Regiments 288 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

Queen  Mary  of  Great  Britain 
Queen  Elizabeth  of  Belgium 
Earl  Kitchener 
General  Joffre 


D00743696Z 


DUKE  UNIVERSITY 
UIBRARY 


DURHAM,  NORTH  CAROLINA 
27706 


GAYLORD 


